


Welcome to Pine Shores!

by andimeantittosting (Saylee)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Background Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak, Background Rowena MacLeod/Sam Winchester - Freeform, Castiel Wears Dean Winchester's Clothes, Dean and Cas run a motel, Dean tries and fails to set Cas up with other people, DeanCas Pinefest 2020 (Supernatural), Domesticity, Future Fic, Getting Older, Human Castiel, M/M, Middle-aged Dean and Castiel, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23419222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting
Summary: Thirteen years ago, Dean, with Cas by his side, bought the run-down Pine Shores Motel, and made it into a home and a stopping place for hunters. In those thirteen years, he has never been able to bring himself to admit his feelings to Cas—after all, why rock the boat? But, Dean realizes, doesn’t Cas deserve more than just growing old in a shabby motel with Dean? Surely, as a good friend, it’s Dean’s job to encourage Cas to get out there and live his dreams.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 311
Kudos: 972
Collections: Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020, Mixtape Book Club Podcast - Discussed Fics, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so thrilled to share this Pinefest with you! This challenge is a wonderful experience, and I would like to extend a huge thank you to the mods for making it that way! 
> 
> I was lucky enough to be paired with the fantastic [imogenbynight](https://imogenbynight.tumblr.com/)! Be sure to check out the lovely art embedded in this fic, and leave some love on the [Art Masterpost](https://imogenbynight.tumblr.com/post/615090286934261760/welcome-to-pine-shores-art-masterpost-as-part-of).
> 
> Thank you also to the ever-wonderful [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) for beta reading and cheering me on when this story fought me.
> 
> In a few places in this fic, song lyrics appear from Townes Van Zandt's [_Pancho and Lefty_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zprRZ2wFQD4). This song is where the idea for this story originally sprang from, though it has evolved considerably from that point. I also reference another Townes Van Zandt song, [_Waiting Around to Die_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-Rq-4spRz4). It's exactly as cheery a song as you'd think, but if you're in the mood for really depressing country, he's got a nice voice.
> 
> Enjoy and please consider reblogging the [Masterpost](https://deancaspinefest.tumblr.com/post/615092037246697472/welcome-to-pine-shores-explicit-20901-words)!

__

_"_ _All the Federales say they could've had him any day. They only let him slip away out of kindness, I suppose."_

Dean, alone in the reception area of the incongruously named Pine Shores Motel—located far from any pine forests or shorelines of any kind—sings along to the low hum of music as he straightens the local tourist trap brochures in the beat up wall display. There's a faint crackle where the album's got a bit scratched, and the old country song competes with the occasional rattle from the overhead fan. Dean's always considered himself more of a rock man, but somewhere in the last few years Cas had developed a fondness for outlaw country, and Dean has to admit, it's grown on him.

It's a sad song; the old bandit, his partner dead, growing old in a cheap hotel, all alone.

Dean shudders and glances out the window to watch Cas watering the sorry excuses for shrubs they had planted by the motel office doors to spruce the place up a bit. The hose snakes, green and winding from the side of the building and across the path that leads from Dean’s door to the nearly empty parking lot.

_There but for the grace of God go I,_ he thinks with no little irony. In fact, it sounds like just the kind of tragic ending Chuck would have enjoyed foisting on his favourite characters.

Thankfully, Chuck’s influence has been out of the picture for a long time now.

As Dean watches, Cas attempts to roll up his sleeves, tucking the still running hose under his armpit to free up his hands. Water gushes across the concrete slabs of the path, soaking into the dry grass on either side, as Castiel fumbles for the hose and ends up sending a spurt of water into his face and down the front of his—or is it Dean's?—shirt.

Dean chuckles to himself and abandons his task to push the aluminum door open, and call out, "I thought you were supposed to be watering the plants, not yourself."

Castiel rolls his eyes so hard that his whole body practically rolls with them, and drops the hose to the ground, where it splashes water over the toes of Dean's boots.

"Hey!"

"Go turn off the water, Dean." Without waiting for a response, Castiel just straight up strips out of the wet shirt, forgoing the buttons and simply pulling it over his head. It's only through long practice that Dean doesn't ogle the bare chest on display. He can picture it in his mind's eye anyway, as he moves around to the side of the building to shut off the hose. Dean doesn’t set out to look at Cas when he’s half-dressed, but they’ve lived together full-time for more than a decade now. They share a room. Of course he’s caught glimpses. 

Cas is still solid and muscular and tan, incredibly easy on the eyes, even if he is starting to get a little softer around the middle these days, and his little bit of chest hair is more grey than anything else. The first time Dean had realized that, he’d had to lock himself in the ever-rundown pool shed until his quiet freakout had passed. Cas had given him an odd look when he’d emerged, but Dean doesn’t think he ever realized what that was about.

It’s silly to worry about Cas going grey—and only on his chest, anyway; his hair is as dark as ever, except around his temples, and that looks _distinguished_ . Besides, it's not like Dean isn't aging, too. This very morning he had stood in front of the bathroom mirror so long, staring at his crow's feet, that Cas had walked right in and shouldered him aside to get to the toothpaste. It’s just that every now and then, he notices these signs that _Cas_ is aging, _is human,_ and it catches him off-guard.

Dean grunts as he pushes himself back to his feet, the water slowing to a trickle, then stopping. Cas looks over at him in concern at the noise, still in the process of wringing out his wet shirt, and Dean huffs a breath. He’s so fucking human these days. “Just my knees, Cas. Room two left monster guts on the carpet when they checked out. Was on the floor scrubbing it up for a good hour.”

“Inconsiderate,” is Cas’s verdict, eyes going stoney. “That was Kaiden Soames. I’ll make a note: next time, no hunters’ discount.”

Hunters aren’t the only ones who stay at the little roadside motel, but in the thirteen years since Dean, with Cas tagging along, took over management, word of the place—with their hunters’ discount and lack of questions—has become widespread in the hunter community. And it is more of a community these days, if a loose one, an informal network communicating through several hubs. One of which is Sam, still living in the Bunker, when he isn’t otherwise occupied studying magic under Rowena—or doing other things with Rowena, something Dean still can’t quite get used to, no matter how many years it’s been.

The hunters who pass through these days are mostly younger folks, though Dean still hears from his old contacts from time to time. A surprising number from his generation had made it to retirement, especially after Chuck’s interference had ceased. As hunting settled back into more run-of-the-mill salt-and-burns and more basic monster hunts, it had seemed more and more possible to leave the work to younger, spryer hunters.

Hell, even Dean had been convinced to leave the road. He’d been contemplating it anyway, irritated by the way his knee and back twinged as he completed the last ten-hour leg of the return from a distant haunting, when they’d passed a battered old roadside motel, one with a ‘For Sale’ placard posted prominently below the dusty, half-burnt out ‘vacancy’ sign.

To the protests of his brother and the confused murmuring of Cas from the backseat, he’d swung the Impala into a U-turn and pulled into the weed-filled gravel lot.

“Are we stopping for the night?” Cas asked as Dean killed the engine. “It’s only four. Is something wrong?”

“Let’s press on for home,” Sam argued, peering out the window at the unimpressive, peeling facade. “It’s only a couple more hours, and this place looks like a dump.”

“Relax, Princess.” Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re not sleeping here. But I am thinking of buying.”

It had been an impulsive decision. Sam had put his foot down and refused to consider moving to the motel. For all the bunker had taken longer to feel like home to him, he had no interest in leaving its relatively comfortable confines and veritable treasure-trove of lore in favour of starting a whole new career in _motel-ownership,_ of all things. That might have put a damper on Dean’s sudden ambitions, except Cas had spoken up in favour of the plan, and before Dean had quite realized what he was about, he found himself the proud co-owner of an exceptionally shabby motel, along with an ex-angel who had no more idea of how to run a business than he did.

Somehow, they’d made it work.

The thing is, Dean loves Pine Shores. Despite the creaky old ceiling fan, despite the flaking stucco, despite the ever-dilapidated pool shed (Cas calls it ‘charmingly lopsided’), despite the never-ending need for upkeep. Hell, despite the fact that it’s a crappy roadside motel like every roadside motel he stayed in growing up. It’s his and it’s home. 

Well, his and Cas’s. Dean hadn’t really expected Cas to stick with him for long after he’d bought the decrepit old place, but he had. He’s poured every bit as much time and care and sweat into the place as Dean has. He’d stuck by Dean even on the days when the thought of giving up his old hunting life in favour of something entirely new had seemed laughably impossible. He’d helped Dean revive Pine Shores with his own two hands.

Dean appreciates it more than he could ever let on.

Privately, he thinks Cas might be his home a little bit, too. Not that he could ever voice such a ridiculous sentiment.

Pine Shores Motel is a one-storey, L-shaped building, clad in white stucco that is flaking in places, despite Dean’s best efforts to keep up with repairs. There are ten rooms, in a long line, each with a parking space in front of the door. At the corner of the L sits the small reception area and the motel office, plus a utility closet with an industrial washer and dryer and the motel cleaning supplies. Beyond that, jutting backwards, is the apartment where Dean and Cas live.

The guest rooms have back doors that let out onto a narrow flagstone path, tucked between the building and the pool fence. In the corner, up against the building, is the ice machine and a pair of ancient vending machines. If guests follow the path in the other direction, they reach the pool gate and a small patio area with picnic tables. The pool itself is a simple rectangle, surrounded by concrete. It’s fenced on three sides with a chain link fence, and the fourth side butts right up against the wall of Dean and Cas’s apartment, where they have a private entrance to the pool half-hidden behind the rickety pool shed.

The motel is technically part of a small town, which once used to be bigger. It’s out towards the edges, right off the highway, along with a sketchy dollar store, a fry truck, and a dive bar. There’s also an abandoned independant gas station, long driven out of business by the Gas ‘n’ Sip a few miles back.

On Friday evenings, Dean and Cas leave the front desk in the hands of Marissa or Tyler, their employees. Tonight it’s Marissa, a local college dropout too disaffected to be bothered by the strange guests who sometimes pass through. Sometimes, Dean and Cas eat in the one local restaurant, or drive to a diner a little further afield that serves excellent apple cake, but as often as not, they find themselves passing the time in Rose’s, the dive bar just down the way. Tonight, after a dinner of Dean’s homemade burgers, they walk the short distance to the bar.

Rose’s is the kind of bar that hasn’t been updated in several decades, dusty, with dark stains long since set into the tables. There’s a wooden floor and wood-panelled walls covered in neon beer signs and old licence plates. There’s a pair of pool tables and a faded dartboard. And there’s Rose herself behind the bar, strong hands and sharp eyes, crows feet at the corners and humour twisting her mouth. She reminds Dean of Ellen, except that she’s about his age. Come to think of it, he’s probably older now than Ellen was when he first met her. The whole place reminds him of the Roadhouse and the many bars like it he’s passed through over the years. It’s comfortable. It fits him.

Dean fetches their drinks from Rose as Cas goes to lay claim to their booth. It’s a silent exchange, a routine. They exchange a nod of greeting, and then Rose turns away to grab two bottles of Texan Star—their usual—while Dean digs his wallet out of his back pocket and passes a few bills across the bar. Dean takes the two bottles in one hand, their brown glass clinking together, and gives her a half salute as he goes to join Cas. 

He passes one bottle to Cas as he slides onto the battered leather bench of the booth, and Cas accepts it with that subtle uptick of his lips and warmth in his eyes that Dean is a little addicted to, even if he doesn’t feel he’s earned it. It’s just a beer after all. 

But he clinks his own bottle against Cas’s before he takes a long, refreshing sip. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Cas repeats, drinking from his own bottle. Dean only watches the way the glass presses against his full lower lip a little bit. He’s certainly not drinking it in avidly, because if he was, Cas would notice.

He wonders how his beer would taste, kissed off Cas’s lips.

“What are we toasting?” Cas asks once he’s placed his bottle back on the scarred wood of the table

“Dunno. Getting through another week?” Dean shrugs easily, settling back more comfortably against the back of the booth. His boot knocks against Cas’s, and a warm sense of well-being suffuses his body. This is why he’s never pushed things further. Despite all the struggles that had defined the first eleven years of his relationship with Cas, things between them now are as close to perfect as he dares hope for. Things between them are easy, comfortable, right. 

Why would Dean rock the boat with his potentially unwanted feelings? Like this, he gets to keep Cas, and that, more than anything is what he wants.

There had been that one kiss. 

It hardly counts. They were, after all, drunk at the time. Besides, in the thirteen years since it happened, Castiel hasn’t brought it up, even once, so either he doesn’t want to talk about it, or he just straight up doesn’t remember. In any case, Dean’s not going to push his boundaries bringing it up. Cas deserves to not be confronted with a drunken mistake, and he doesn’t need to feel beholden to Dean, just because deep down, Dean can’t let it go.

It’s true that Dean still thinks about it, thirteen years later.

It wasn’t even that great a kiss, objectively speaking. It was sloppy and uncoordinated, the product of too much whiskey as they celebrated their first guests after the motel reopened. Cas was newly back to being human in those days, and for the first year or so, his alcohol tolerance had been shit. Dean had no such excuse, but he had had _a lot_ of whiskey, in order to keep up with his friend’s drunkenness. He hadn't been thinking about the consequences of letting his inhibitions down.

Kissing Cas had seemed like a good idea at the time.

To be fair, Dean had wanted to kiss Cas for years, by that point. And with the alcohol humming in his veins, no more world to save, and Cas three sheets to the wind, dishevelled and pink-cheeked and laughing, all his reasons for holding back seemed suddenly inconsequential. 

Cas had smiled sweetly and slightly blurrily at him, from where he’d been slouched back into the couch, a far cry from his old angelic stiffness. It had taken nothing at all for Dean to lean forward from his own end of the couch, their knees pressing together as he moved into Cas’s space.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas had said, finding Dean closer than he had expected. “I like you very much.” His hand raised to stroke clumsily at Dean’s cheek, emboldening him. Without giving any further thought to what he was about, Dean fit his mouth to Castiel’s and kissed him.

It was awkward, Dean landing slightly off-centre, but that didn’t stop Cas from opening to him with a moan and a sigh, their tongues sliding together as they plundered each other’s mouths. And, okay, it was too deep, and clumsy, too wet, too many teeth. Even drunk as he was, Dean knew he was kissing a little too hungrily. But it was still the sweetest kiss Dean had ever had. Cas’s mouth tasted like bourbon, his hands clutched at any part of Dean they could reach, as if he were as desperate as Dean felt, and the litany of little noises he made were enough to make Dean’s head spin. Although, maybe that was the booze, or the lack of air.

Dean pulled back so they could catch their breath, and Cas let his head fall back against the back of the couch with a dull _thwump_. 

“Mmmm, Cas.” Affectionately, Dean let his fingertips stroke along Cas’s collarbone, exposed by the way the collar of his t-shirt was pulled to the side, and up the side up his neck, lightly, teasingly. 

Cas didn’t respond, his head lolling further into Dean’s hand. Dean blinked bleary eyes down at him. Passed out. So much for more kissing.

Oh well, they’d figure it out in the morning. 

Shuffling down the couch, Dean laid his head on one of Cas’s deliciously thick thighs and closed his eyes with a sigh. A little shut-eye wouldn’t hurt him either.

He drifted off into blackness.

When he’d awoken, bright sunlight had been glinting through the window off the chlorinated water of the pool, stabbing him in the eyes, and he’d been alone. There was a throw pillow under his head, and a blanket spread over him, but Cas was nowhere to be seen. That was okay. They should probably wait until they’d recovered from their hangovers to talk about the kiss anyway. Dean dragged himself off the couch and stumbled to the kitchen to start the coffee. Step one: lure Cas back out of the bedroom with the smell of liquid caffeine.

If Cas wanted to talk about it at all, that is. Dean paused in scooping the grounds into the filter. Maybe he’d prefer to forget it had happened. After all, things were going so well. Why rock the boat?

Dean frowned, but conceded the logic. He closed the lid and pressed the on button, reaching for two mugs from the cupboard. It was fine. He’d wait for Cas to say something, and if he didn’t, well, Dean would have his answer.

_He’d had his answer._ Cas’s silence then had spoken volumes, as had his continued silence for the past thirteen years. And yet, sometimes Dean can’t stop worrying at it like a loose tooth. Every now and then, he lies awake at night, listening to Cas’s soft snoring, and replaying instead every sound Cas had made against Dean’s lips, and he wonders if maybe he’d misinterpreted, if maybe he should have said something.

But it’s all moot now. He’s waited thirteen years. They’re settled, they’re content. It’s much too late to stir things up now.

As long as Cas is with him.

“Hmm,” Cas hums like he has something to say, but doesn’t add anything else. They drink their beers in silence, and it’s good. It’s nice that they don’t always have to use words. That with each other, they can just _be._

Cas fetches the next round, exchanging a word or two with Rose and make her laugh low at something he says. Dean half-watches, singing along to Zepp, which is playing on the old jukebox, under his breath.

Cas returns to their table. “Maybe Rose should hold a karaoke night,” he says, as he does from time to time when he catches Dean singing. 

“And have me assault everybody’s ears?” Dean counters, his standard response. “Besides, you know I’d make you sing, too.”

“That’s more a punishment for you than for me,” Cas replies, bone dry.

“Hey,” Dean says, “I like your voice.” And he does. Cas can’t hold a tune to save his life, but Dean likes listening to the low gravel of his voice as he sings along to the radio or when he thinks Dean can’t hear. There’s something so unequivocally human about it, and Dean’s been known to lurk in doorways when he hears him, hoping to be able to listen just a little bit longer.

Sam would call him sentimental if he knew. But then, there’s a reason Dean doesn’t talk to his brother about his feelings for Cas. If Sam ever found out—well, he has decades worth of revenge stored up, for all the times Dean poked fun about his crushes over the years. Dean’s not going to hand him the ammunition.

The conversation drifts, through a couple more rounds of drinks and a plate of nachos, not settling on anything important, just the gentle meandering of two people who enjoy each other’s company. Dean watches the crinkles at the corners of Cas’s eyes, the curve of his lips, the fluid movements of his hands. He drinks him in like he’s the beer, like he could get drunk off Cas instead, and yet neither is too far from sober when they at last call it a night.

They walk the short distance home together, shoulders bumping occasionally. Letting themselves in through the front door of the motel office, they greet a disinterested Marissa, who is idly twirling a pen between her fingers. She merely blinks her heavily lined eyes at them, and shrugs when Cas asks if she needs anything before they turn in, but that’s not unusual for her, so they’re unbothered.

Cas bids her goodnight, and she responds with a drawled, “Yeah, okay.”

“See, that’s what I like about you,” Dean tells her. “Your cheery attitude.” She gives him the finger, but he can see the faint amusement in her face before they let themselves through into the apartment. “Try not to scare off the customers.”

In the bedroom, Cas is already pulling his pyjamas out of the dresser. Rather than watch the muscles of his back as he strips off his shirt and buttons the pyjama top, Dean pulls open his own drawer, digging through for a pair of sleep pants and his comfortably stretched out AC/DC t-shirt.

“Cas, you been stealing my clothes again?” he asks, when the shirt fails to materialize. He pulls another shirt out of the drawer.

“Yes,” Cas answers, shameless. A large hand falls on Dean’s shoulder. “I had a good time tonight, Dean.”

And, hell, it was hardly anything special, no different than what they do every week, but warmth suffuses Dean anyway. “Yeah, me too, buddy. I always have a good time with you.” 


	2. Chapter 2

_"He did what he had to do, and now he's growin' old…"_

Dean leans back against the steps, watching the gentle lap of sunset-tinted water against the side of the pool. A quiet breeze has picked up as the sticky heat of the day fades, and Dean rolls his neck, releasing the tension of a day’s work. The little portable radio that sits beside him is tuned to Cas’s old country station, but he’s content to leave it there, humming along, a little off-key, to the familiar song.

Before Dean can think too deep about the lyrics, a hand reaches across and switches off the radio.

"I can't believe you let Cas listen to this crap." Claire Novak shakes her long blonde hair out of her face and unceremoniously drops to sit beside Dean on the concrete step that leads from Dean and Cas’s apartment into the pool area. Motel guests have to enter from the slightly lopsided gate at the far end of the pool deck, but Claire's family and comes and goes as she pleases.

Claire has also apparently raided his kitchen as she pleases. She cracks open a beer that definitely came from his fridge and Dean gives a half-hearted nod towards the metal sign barring both alcohol and glass containers on the pool deck. Claire merely rolls her eyes and hands him a beer as well. He snorts, the bribe working.

"Cheers." Dean pops the cap off with his ring and clinks his bottle against hers, before taking a long sip. "No one really _lets_ Cas do anything," he remarks about the song. "Besides, the guy's got a nice voice."

"Uh huh." Claire snorts into her beer. "Still in love with Cas, then?"

"Love of my goddamn life," he admits easily, because it is easy to say these days, as long as Cas is out of earshot. Speaking of, "Is he—?"

"In the kitchen with Kaia. He didn't hear anything."

"Good," Dean says, clearing his throat in a way that is not at all deliberate.

"You're an idiot, Dean Winchester," Claire tells him, and they drink their beers in companionable silence as the last traces of pink fade from the sky.

*****

Later, they all sit around Dean and Cas’s kitchen table, the overhead lamp casting a warm circle of golden light over them while Kaia trounces them all soundly at poker. 

“Dude,” Dean complains jokingly to Cas, who is usually unbeatable at poker, as Kaia rakes in another round of winnings, “are you letting her win? Ow,” he adds, when Claire’s fist catches him in the arm, harder than necessary.

“Serves you right,” Claire says smugly. “She’s just that good, aren’t you, babe?” 

Dean massages the sore spot and shoots Claire a wounded look.

Kaia’s response is a smirk and a knowing quirk of her brow. Dean’s never been quite clear on how much of her is the original, timid Kaia from their world, and how much is the one who came over from Jurassic World, but she’s grown into a quiet, self-possessed woman, and one who is secretly a badass. Given Dean’s history with both versions of her, it had taken her a while to warm up to him, but she’d taken to Cas with surprising ease, and she clearly loves Claire, so they’ve made it work. These days, the awkwardness is all but gone.

It helps that Dean had traded in his weapons for motel ledgers and vacuum cleaners. Plus, he makes a mean nacho platter, which they’ve all just finished polishing off between them.

He rises to his feet, feeling his knees creak, and grabs the empty platter to take to the sink. “Anyone want anything else while I’m up?”

There’s a flurry of requests, and soon he’s sitting back at the table, having passed beers all around and a cider for Kaia, a bowl of freshly popped popcorn by Cas’s elbow.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean lights up far more than he has any right to from the simple words. 

“How long are you kids sticking around?” he asks, to distract from the fluttery feeling in his stomach. “Got a hunt up this way?”

“Kids,” Claire snorts. “You know I’m in my thirties, right, old man?”

“Watch who you’re calling old.” Dean points a finger at her in mock anger, and Claire laughs out loud.

Castiel shakes his head. “Just last week, you tried to get the senior’s discount at the diner, because you said fifty-five was basically sixty.”

Dean shoots him an affronted look as Claire laughs harder and Kaia snickers behind her hand. “Traitor! That was for free pie. Besides, I’m only fifty-four.”

Kaia is the first to recover. “We thought we’d stay a couple days. We’re between hunts right now—”

Claire makes a face at her girlfriend. “Because someone said I have to rest sometimes.”

“Very good advice,” Cas says, smiling warmly at Kaia.

Claire rolls her eyes, but says, “Yeah, so we’ll stay here a few days, then head up to Jody’s, hang out with her and Alex for a few weeks before this one will let me get back on the road.” Her tone is complaining, but the look she gives Kaia is undeniably fond. 

Kaia’s been good for her. _Love_ ’s been good for her. Dean can’t help but feel a pang at that. Here he is, old enough to be Claire’s father, and the closest he’s come to love is sitting here beside him, all six feet of dark hair and blue eyes and endless compassion, and _not Dean’s to love._

Cas bumps his shoulder against Dean’s, warm and solid, his eyes full of concern as he asks, “Are you okay, Dean?”

Dean gives himself a little shake and clears his throat. “Sorry, drifted off there. Wanna get us started Cas? It’s your turn to deal.”

Cas takes the cards and the game is back on. 

It’s a couple hours later that they call it a night. 

“Are you sure you don’t want us to take one of the empty rooms?” Kaia asks Cas, as she does every time she and Claire visit. Dean’s drying the dishes from their snacks, and pretending not to listen. “I don’t like kicking you out of your room.”

“It’s alright,” Cas lies smoothly, as if he has ever slept in that room in his life. “I don’t mind sharing with Dean.”

“Are you sure?” Claire sounds dubious, though they go through this routine every time. “I bet Dean snores,” she adds with a smirk his way.

Giving up the pretense that he’s not listening, Dean retorts. “I snore? Cas sounds like a freakin’ freight train. And I still put up with him. Take the room.”

The fact of the matter is that ‘Cas’s room’ sits empty the majority of the time, used only as storage or as a spare room when friends and family come to stay. That they haven’t corrected anyone, well—it’s easier to let them assume they have their own rooms, rather than explain that, yes, they’re two grown men who platonically share a bedroom every night, and have done so for thirteen years.

It’s not like they had intended it. They’re both perfectly capable of sleeping on their own, thank you very much. It had started out as a temporary thing. All of Pine Shores had been a shambles when they’d bought the place, and the manager’s apartment had been no exception. Priority number one had been fixing a bedroom up so that they could sleep. That done, they’d hauled in two double beds—a tight fit, but possible—and moved on to the next priority: the kitchen.

After the kitchen, they’d moved on to the bathroom, then overhauling the guest rooms, the office, the pool. The second bedroom hadn’t been a priority, seeing as they already had somewhere to sleep, and it wasn’t that much of a hardship to share. Sure, Dean sometimes lay awake, listening to Cas breathing, but that was…reassuring, almost, that concrete proof that he was there, safe and alive.

They’d only gotten around to finishing the second bedroom when Sam had mentioned he’d like to come visit for a few days.

“We’ll fix it up for Sam,” Dean had promised, “and then, when he goes, you can move in.” Except, Cas just hadn’t. And Dean hadn’t pushed him. After all, he’d reasoned, they’d been sharing for this long. They were used to it, that was all.

“Not that I’d ever tell Sam,” Dean had remarked once, the closest they came to acknowledging what they were doing. “He wouldn’t get it. Would never let me hear the end of it.” And that was that.

Once Claire and Kaia are squared away in “Cas’s room” for the night, Dean and Cas take turns in the bathroom getting ready for bed. Dean changes into an old pair of plaid pyjama bottoms and a threadbare tee while Cas takes his turn. He and Cas exchange comfortable nods and smiles when Cas returns and begins stripping down to change into PJs, and Dean slips out the door to brush his own teeth.

He scrubs his teeth until his mouth is foamed up like a rabid dog, and bares his teeth at himself in the mirror. He chuckles internally. Not such an old man after all. Although—he peers closer—yeah, he’s definitely greyer on top than he remembers. Maybe he should take a page from Sam’s book and invest in some Grecian Formula. Not that Sam would ever admit to using it, but Dean’s his brother; _he_ _knows._

Dean rinses and spits and takes another moment to examine himself in the mirror. Pointing a finger at his reflection, he reminds himself, “No funny business with Cas.” Spending time with happy couples always puts him in this contemplative mood, thinking about the ‘what if’s with best friend, and there’s nothing for it but to nip it in the bud.

He switches off the light and pads back down the hall to the bedroom door. Cas is already in his bed, reading by the light of the lamp that sits on the single nightstand that fits between their two beds. When Dean enters the room, Cas quickly slips off the reading glasses they both pretend Dean doesn’t know about, secreting them away in the drawer. Dean yawns, pulling back his covers and sliding beneath them, as Cas dog ears the page he’s on and returns his book to the table.

“Night, Cas.” Dean’s already hunkering down into his pillow when the lamp clicks off. He listens fondly to the rustle of fabric as Cas situates himself in his own bed. 

After a moment, Cas falls still. Dean breathes into the still, velvety night. There’s a stretch of comfortable silence, and then Cas’s voice drifts across the way to him, low and warm and familiar. “Goodnight, Dean.”

The motel settles around them, and they sleep.

*****

Some mornings, when neither Cas nor Dean have assigned themselves to the overnight shift on the front desk, Dean wakes as the rosy light of dawn begins to filter in around the edges of the blinds, disturbed by the tiniest of noises.

“Whassat?” he mumbles into his pillow, not bothering to do more than turn his head and crack an eye open. The kind of life where he had to be alert at a second’s notice is long gone.

A blurry figure stands by the dresser. Cas. The second drawer sticks. It was Cas’s tiny grunt of effort as he forced it open that woke Dean. “Sorry,” he whispers, as he always does on these mornings. “Go back to sleep.”

With a sleepy nod, Dean presses his face back into his pillow and closes his eyes, listening to the muffled sounds of Cas getting changed and his bare feet padding across the floor. The door opens and closes softly behind him.

Usually, Dean would fall back asleep once Cas left the room, grateful for another couple hours of shuteye before he needs to wake up and tend to the needs of the motel, but today he finds himself drifting closer to consciousness instead. Eventually, he gives up on sleep and rolls onto his back, stretching luxuriously, curling his toes into the sheets. 

He doesn’t have anything that has to be done just yet, and he knows Claire and Kaia will sleep for a few hours still—Claire sleeps in like it’s an Olympic sport, and Kaia might just be making up for years of not sleeping—so he might as well enjoy the quiet morning.

Unlike Cas, Dean doesn’t bother getting changed once he rolls out of bed. He gives another stretch once he’s on his feet, yawning widely and not bothering to cover his mouth with no one there to see him. He scratches idly at his side before letting himself out into the hallway and making his barefoot way to the kitchen to put on the coffee maker. As he waits for it to brew, he wanders over to the sliding glass door that leads to the pool and peers outside, watching Cas cut through the clear water of the pool in the pale morning light. Technically, the pool doesn’t open until ten a.m., but Cas can do what he wants, and he enjoys his early morning swims.

As Cas reaches the end of the pool closest to where Dean is standing, he grasps onto the ledge, pulling himself upwards and shaking the water out of his blue eyes. Dean is arrested. 

Looking up, Cas sees him watching, and his mouth twitches upwards into that absurd little smile Dean loves. He lifts one hand in a dorky wave, and Dean mirrors the movement, before catching himself. He rolls his eyes a little at himself in embarrassment, but he also can’t look away when Cas hauls himself out of the water and over to the diving board. He tries to keep his eyes glued to Cas’s face, and his water-tousled hair, rather than letting his gaze linger on the way the water glistens on his torso. 

Cas bounces on his toes briefly on the edge of the board, then dives in smoothly. Behind Dean, the coffee maker gurgles on the counter, bringing him back to the task at hand. Tearing himself away from Cas, he heads to the cupboard to take down a couple mugs. 

Cas is just climbing out of the water again when Dean lets himself outside with two mugs in one hand. Dean waits while Cas rubs his hair dry with a towel, then passes over one of the mugs, doctored just the way Cas likes it. 

“Thank you, Dean.” Cas drapes his towel around his shoulders, and accepts the mug Dean passes him, wrapping his hands gratefully around its warmth. He lowers his face to it and inhales the fragrant steam.

“Water cold?” Dean teases, watching Cas soak up the warmth.

“Actually, it’s very refreshing,” Cas counters. “You should give it a try.” He takes a sip of his coffee and his eyes fall closed in pleasure.

“I’m good,” Dean answers, his voice breaking slightly. “I mean,” he recovers, “you know me…”

“You prefer your pools warm like a bathtub, I know.” Cas’s answer is amused.

Dean spreads his hands. “I like to be comfortable, what can I say.” He settles onto one of the plastic deck chairs to sip his coffee, and they drink in comfortable silence as the sky brightens and they begin to hear the first sounds of their guests stirring. “Hmmm,” Dean says after a long while. “Hey, Cas, what do you think about putting in a hot tub?”

The look Cas shoots him is indulgent. “Of course, Dean. If you want to clean it.”

*****

By the time Claire and Kaia wander into the kitchen an hour later, Dean is busy whipping up a batch of banana chocolate chip pancakes and a side of bacon. Before Dean can stop her, Claire grabs a finished pancake off the plate beside him and stuffs it into her mouth.

“Oh my god,” she says through her mouthful. “This is fuckin’ delicious.”

“It’s better with syrup,” Dean grumbles, but he’s not really about to argue too hard with her praise. He is a damn good cook if he does say so himself.

“Seriously, though,” Claire adds, “if you cook like this, I’m surprised Cas hasn’t put a ring on it yet.”

Dean glances furtively around, but Cas is still back in the bedroom, getting dressed after showering off the chlorine. “Well, he gets my food for free, so not much incentive for him there.”

Claire shakes her head. “You really are that dense, huh?”

“Hey.” Dean jabs a finger in her direction. “Keep insulting me and I give all your pancakes to your girlfriend.”

It’s Claire’s turn to shrug. “Fine by me. She’ll share.”

Dean huffs, but dishes her up a full plate anyway.

The thing is—the thing Dean can't manage to explain to Claire—is that, despite his feelings for Cas, despite that one long ago kiss, Dean has no reason to think the former angel feels the same. Sure, he’s stuck around this long, but that’s just familiarity forming comfortable habits. Cas chose humanity, but surely he deserves more out of his human life than just more of this—growing old with a retired former hunter, living and working in an out-of-the-way motel. 

In fact, Dean reflects, as Cas emerges in time for Dean to serve him a full plate of his own, maybe Dean has been selfish, keeping Cas here with him all this time. Maybe it's time to change that, to let him go, to be a good friend and encourage him to spread his wings.

Yes, Dean thinks, watching Cas drown his plate in syrup while deep in conversation with Claire, for Cas's sake, he can do that.

When Claire and Kaia get ready to go a few days later, heading up towards Jody’s this time for an extended stay and the luxury of Jody’s home cooking, Dean nudges Cas. “Maybe you should go with them,” he suggests. “Get a little roadtrip in, visit some more. I could hold down the fort here, no problem, if you wanted to take your time.” He doesn’t relish the idea of being without Cas for an extended period, but it’s not about what he wants, is it? “What do you say? Want to work out a bit of wanderlust?”

The look Cas gives him is puzzled. “Are _you_ experiencing wanderlust, Dean? It was nice to see Claire and Kaia, but I’m sure they don’t want me cramping their style. Besides, I’m happy here, and I’d hardly leave you with all the work.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Dean says, his voice coming out gruffer than intended as he tries to fight off the warmth he feels at the way Cas’s voice curls around the word _happy_. He’s happy here, he says. Happy to be with Dean?

 _Don’t be silly,_ Dean chides himself.

But still, Cas says he's happy. That’s a start.


	3. Chapter 3

“Helloooo?” A lilting feminine voice picks up on the second ring.

Dean smiles, letting himself relax back further into the desk chair, until it is all but tipping backwards. “Rowena. Answering Sam’s phone again?”

She clicks her tongue. “Sam’s a little tied up right now.”

“Please tell me you don’t mean that literally,” Dean groans. “I don’t need to hear about you two and your kinky sex games.”

Rowena’s laughter is bright and clear and bell-like. “Oh, relax. Your brother’s just in the shower.” She pauses, and he can hear her smirk over the line as she adds, “Washing off our kinky sex games.”

Despite himself, Dean lets out a bark of laughter. “Oh, screw you!” he exclaims. Cas, who has just pushed through the front door with their cart full of cleaning supplies and a full laundry bin, raises an eyebrow in his direction. Dean mouths ‘Rowena’ at him, by way of explanation, and gets an amused quirk of his lips in return.

“I do hope that door chime I heard was Castiel,” Rowena mentions archly, “or you’ll be scaring all your customers away.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean scoffs, tucking the phone under his ear so he can keep talking as he gets up to help Cas. “‘Cause the folks who come to Pine Shores are really looking for that wholesome family vacation experience.” He unloads the laundry bin from Cas’s cart and precedes him into the utility closet where they keep the industrial washer and dryer that keep the motel laundry separate from their personal stuff. “But yeah,” he adds, as he opens the washer to begin piling in the sheets and towels, “that was Cas. You wanna say hi?”

“You know I do.”

“He’s all yours.” Ignoring Cas’s slightly wide eyes and attempts to wave him off—Rowena likes to shower compliments and cutesy nicknames on Cas that inevitably leave him flustered—Dean shoves the phone into his hand. Cas gives him a dirty look, but Dean chuckles to himself, concentrating on adding the correct amounts of laundry detergent and bleach to the load as he hears that deep rumble of, “Hello Rowena.”

Dean closes the lid of the washing machine, and checks that all the settings are correct. Over the years, Rowena has become a fixture in their lives, and he always enjoys bantering with her. Admittedly, it had been weird at first when Sam had announced he was banging the red-headed witch.

Alright, banging was Dean’s word. Sam had said, “We’ve decided to try dating.” 

Dean had only made the mistake once of asking, “Three-hundred-and-something. Isn’t she a little old for you, Sammy?”

Sam’s bitchface had been spectacular. “You’re one to talk.”

That had shut Dean up, because, yeah, Cas is older than stardust. Sure, Dean’s not _actually_ sleeping with Cas, but it’s not for lack of wishing, and apparently Sam knows that, too.

“Yes, I’m doing well, thank you,” Cas is saying as Dean starts the machine and turns to face him. His cheeks are a little pink, undoubtedly from Rowena’s teasing, and his hair is tousled from his turn cleaning the rooms. It’s a good look on him.

“Dean’s well, too.” There’s such warmth in his voice as he says it that it’s Dean’s turn to blush. He gently hip-checks Cas out of the way so he can unload the cart and put the supplies back where they belong. Cas rewards him with a grateful smile and moves out of Dean’s way. 

Cas has argued before that he doesn’t see the point of putting the supplies back on the shelf every day and then back on the cart the next morning.

“So we won’t surprise ourselves by running out of something,” is Dean’s stubborn counter-argument. 

He knows Cas still doesn’t necessarily agree, but he understands it’s important to Dean, so they’ve made it part of the routine. Still, Cas cares much less about putting everything back in its particular spot, so some days Dean insists on doing it himself, and Cas is just as happy to let him have his head.

Dean checks off the inventory list he’d prepared and printed up, and signs off on it, even though he’s the one checking it every day. It doesn’t make him a finicky old man, thank you very much. Cas’s conversation is a soothing low murmur in the background. Finally, he hears, “Goodbye, Rowena. I’ll talk to you later. Hello, Sam. It’s good to hear from you, too, but I believe Dean was calling you. Should I give the phone back to him?”

Dean makes a grabby hand in the direction of his phone, but Cas twists away, evidently listening to whatever Sam is saying on the other end of the line. “Yes, he is.” Cas chuckles. “I’d better go. Bye, Sam.”

With a mild, fond eyeroll in Dean’s direction, Cas hands over the phone. Dean snatches it up and brings it to his ear. “Sammy, hey,” he says. “Listen. When were you two crazy kids thinking of coming for a visit?”

*****

There’s nothing like working in a motel to remind you how disgusting people can be, Dean thinks later that week, while he scrubs the bathroom in room three. This room hadn’t even been inhabited by hunters, with all the attendant blood and ectoplasm and viscera. No, this was plain old civilians passing through, who apparently hadn’t thought twice about leaving bodily fluids everywhere. He shudders and breaks out the bleach.

As Dean works, something restless builds under his skin. It’s an itch that doesn’t dissipate, even as he takes it out on the shower walls. The bleach fumes as he really puts his back into it probably don’t help either.

Once room three is spic and span and sparkling, Dean moves on to room four. This one is still inhabited, so Dean merely changes the sheets and towels and gives the bathroom surfaces a quick wipe down. Some of the hunters they get prefer to have their rooms left alone entirely for the duration of their stay, but others, like these, welcome the chance for some cleanliness, as long as it’s Dean or Cas doing the cleaning—people unlikely to freak out at anything weird they might find.

He works his way down the row of rooms, the restlessness building all the while. The last room is also in need of bleach, and not paying attention, he overdoes it a bit. He leaves the window open to let the fumes air out, but it’s with a slightly light head and a scratchy throat that he makes his way back to the motel office to put away the cleaning supplies.

The ever-cheerful Tyler is manning the reception desk when he pushes his way in with the cart. 

“Where’s Cas?” he asks, his voice coming out as more of a growl than he intends, and he feels instantly bad when the smile drops off Tyler’s face. “Sorry,” he says. His fingers drum against his denim-clad leg. He’s still not sure where this restlessness is coming from, but he thinks he knows how to get it out.

“Um,” Tyler says, “he’s cleaning the pool.” 

“Thanks,” Dean says, attempting a smile. “Listen, are you okay holding down the fort on your own?” At Tyler’s nod, he’s already moving toward the door. “Cool. I’m gonna go see if Cas wants to go for a drive with me. You keep up the good work.” He shoots him a finger-gun, and Tyler is back to grinning. If only everyone took things in stride so easily.

Cas is just stowing the net they use to clean the pool back into the dilapidated toolshed alongside the chemicals when Dean sticks his head outside. 

“Hey Cas, wanna come for a drive?”

Cas must recognize Dean’s mood, because the smile he turns on him is gentle. “Of course. Is Tyler okay alone?”

“He says he is.”

“Alright. Should I get changed?”

Dean survey’s Cas’s attire. He’s slightly dishevelled, somewhat sweaty from the work, but then, so is Dean. “Nah, you’re good.” They’ll put the windows down, let the wind ruffle their hair, and not worry about anything but the road beneath their wheels.

The itching between Dean’s shoulderblades persists until he slides behind Baby’s wheel, Cas slipping in beside him from the passenger side. Dean feels the tension melt from his shoulders as he caresses the leather. He takes a series of deep breaths in, then turns the key in the ignition, sighing as Baby rumbles to life beneath him. His best girl, and Cas beside him. This is exactly what he needs.

Dean presses play on the tape deck as he pulls out onto the old two-lane highway, tapping out the beat of the song with his thumbs on the steering wheel.

As the miles disappear beneath Baby’s tires, the music, the sound of her engine, the whoosh of wind through her open windows, and Cas’s steady, quiet presence beside him all work their magic on Dean, and he lets them lull him until he loses track of how long he’s been driving.

Cas waits, content to ride in comfortable silence, until they stop at a Gas ‘n’ Sip to refuel. Dean refills the Impala’s gas tank while Cas heads inside. He emerges while Dean swipes his card to pay, two cups of coffee in hand. He passes one to Dean once they climb into the car, and Dean drinks gratefully, before handing the half-full cup back to Cas to hold onto while he drives.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Cas sips his own drink as Dean pulls the car towards the exit of the parking lot. “Is everything okay?”

And despite the itch he’d felt all morning, Dean finds that, yes, everything is. “I’m good,” he tells Cas honestly, turning on his blinker to turn back onto the highway. “I was just…” he shrugs.

Cas waits.

“...missing the open road,” Dean finishes, feeling slightly embarrassed. In the early days of Pine Shores, it had been a near-monthly occurrence, and he often took off on his own, only turning back when he received worried, emoji-laden texts from Cas, checking in on him. But now, it’s been so long since he’d settled down that he thinks he should be past the occasional urge to take off. 

He’d asked Sam once if he ever had the urge to get in a car and just go, somewhere, anywhere, and Sam had simply frowned in confusion, and asked, “I thought you were happy with your life?” And Dean is, but sometimes he needs to drive.

Cas, bless him, seems to get it. He accepts Dean’s explanation with only a gentle look and a quiet, “Thank you for bringing me with you.”

Dean pulls back onto the highway, heading towards home.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a cocky young hunter in room eight, and Dean hates him. 

Hunter Chase—and oh boy, does Dean have things to say about _that_ name—has been hunting for about five years now, and has stayed at the Pine Shores a handful of times. He has yet to do what Dean has predicted since his first stay and get himself killed with a reckless stunt. Instead he comes around with one hunting companion or another, flashing smiles and charm, acting like he’s invincible.

Dean always kind of wants to deck him.

He’d groaned when he’d seen that distinctive '64 Mustang pull up into the parking lot, and had tried to drag Cas out of their apartment behind the motel office to handle the check-in.

“Please, Cas,” Dean had _not_ whined. “He’s so obnoxious.”

But his pleas had only been met with rolled eyes, and an “I’m doing laundry Dean,” so Dean has been forced to grit his teeth through the transaction, and hands over the key with a grudging smile. 

To add insult to injury, Hunter—Jesus, does that name grind Dean’s gears— has picked up on a local hunt, so he’ll be staying at least a few nights, rather than just stopping in on the way to somewhere else, all of which he’s taken the time to tell Dean, adding, “I know you’re out of the life, but maybe once we’ve done the legwork, Erica and I can run our notes by you, see what you think?”

Dean grunts in response and bites out, “Enjoy your stay,” as Hunter waves out the window at his latest hunting partner—Erica Cook, who Dean has always credited with having more sense than this.

“You bet,” Hunter answers with an easy grin. “Hey, tell Cas to come say hi later. I want to tell him about the okami I hunted down in Oregon.”

And that’s the other thing that pisses Dean off, because Cas _likes_ this bastard. Sometimes when he stops by, Cas will go and chat with him and his latest hunting partner for upwards of an hour. Sometimes he even accepts an offer for a drink. Dean’s been invited along on these occasions, but someone’s got to watch the motel office. He doesn’t spend the time sulking, no matter what Cas claims. 

“I just don’t understand why you’d want to be around that douchebag longer than you have to,” he’d grumbled to Cas the last time Hunter Chase had been through.

“I enjoy his company. He reminds me of someone,” Cas had answered with a pointed look that Dean had ignored. 

“Whatever,” Dean had grumped. “Go have fun.”

“Sure, I’ll tell him,” he says to Hunter now. And he will, no matter how much it chaps his ass to do so, because Cas is allowed to have friends, dammit, no matter what Dean thinks about them.

“Awesome. I’ll see you around.” Hunter takes aim at Dean with a pair of finger guns and a wink, and steps backwards towards the door. As an afterthought, he swipes a brochure for a pioneer village from the rack, and disappears outside with a tinkle of the bell. Dean can see him grinning as he ruffles up his hair and moves back towards his car to help Erica unload. 

“Harumph,” Dean mutters to himself, knowing he sounds ridiculous. Next thing he knows, he’s gonna be shaking his cane and yelling, _You damn kids, get off my lawn._

Not that he uses a cane, thanks to Cas, one of whose last acts before excising his grace for good had been to heal Dean’s badly injured knee. He still gets twinges now and again, but if it hadn’t been for Cas, his knee would have been destroyed.

Only once every piece of bone had been unshattered and every torn ligament knitted back together and Dean had been able to walk again, had Cas retrieved his fallen angel blade and made the incision through which he pulled his grace out, severing his ties with Heaven and with God for once and for all. For one long moment, he had been bathed in the silver remnants of his power, while Dean had watched, tongue bitten and weak in his newly restored knees, and then he had been just human, just _Cas_.

Cas’s humanity still takes Dean off-guard sometimes, as it does now as he slips through the private door from their apartment. There’s something so vital about him, in the way he moves and smiles, the way his greying hair curls slightly around his ears where it’s a little too long, in need of a cut. For the first time today, Dean notices that the shirt Cas is wearing is definitely one of his.

“What’s up?” Dean asks him, swivelling on his chair as Cas moves further into the small office space. It would be so easy, if they were a couple, to tug him in for a swift kiss. As it is, Dean has to curl his fingers into the seam of his own jeans to stop himself from reaching out, when they move around each other in their familiar rhythms. It’s so easy to forget that’s all it is.

Castiel leans back against the counter. “I came to say hello to Hunter, but it looks like I missed him.”

“Yeah, he wants you to stop by later. He’s hunting with Erica Cook this time. And here I thought she had taste.”

Cas makes a dissenting noise, and Dean waves him off before he can protest that Dean really ought to give the younger hunter a chance.

“Yeah, yeah, _he’s not that bad, Dean_ , I know. But I thought you were too busy doing laundry to come help me out here?”

“I finished,” is Cas’s simple response, as if he couldn’t have put off such a simple job long enough to spare Dean Hunter Chase’s company. Though there’s a faint smirk about Cas’s mouth that suggests he knows what he did. “The timer will go off when it’s time to switch loads.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says, but damn if a smile isn’t playing around his own lips at Cas’s cheek. “You looking for something to do while you wait, or…”

“I could,” Cas says, “but I thought I’d come keep you company.” He perches one hip on and one off the desk. Hell if Dean is going to tell him no.

“Have at it, man,” he invites, spreading his hands and leaning back in the desk chair. "I'm just working out what we'd need to tear down the pool shed and build a new one."

"There's nothing wrong with the pool shed," Cas protests. "It has character."

"Uh huh, uh huh." Dean nods his head. "Sure it does, right up until the day that character collapses on our heads. Death by pool shed, Cas, that the way you want to go?”

And they’re off, bickering about renovations they could do, enthusiastically agreeing about others, and drawing up plans for some, until the buzzer of the washing machine sounds faintly from inside the apartment, summoning Cas back to his task.

“I’ll bring you out dinner in a bit,” he promises as he heads back to work. “Is spaghetti and meatballs okay?”

“You’re the best, Cas,” Dean vows. “If I could marry you here and now, I would.”

An odd furrowed expression overcomes Cas’s face, and Dean immediately regrets his words.

“Sorry,” he hurries to apologize. “Bit of hyperbole, you know.”

Cas’s smile is tight. “I understand. I know how much you love to eat, Dean.” And then he’s gone through the door, before Dean can figure out what was behind his odd reaction. After all, if anyone should be embarrassed, it’s Dean.

Dean whiles away the next few hours. A small motel like this doesn’t get much traffic, certainly not enough to keep whoever’s on desk duty busy, but someone’s got to be here just in case someone does show up wanting a room. Dean puts the finishing touches on the window box plans he and Cas had been drawing up, then picks up his book, a battered sci-fi novel he found in the ninety-nine cent bin at a thrift store in the next town over. Reading occupies his time until a quarter to seven, when Cas brings him in a plate of dinner, piled high and smelling heavenly, a far cry from when Cas was first learning to cook. It’s almost enough to have Dean repeating his faux pas proposal of earlier, but thankfully he checks himself. Cas doesn’t need to know more about Dean’s poorly-controlled emotions than he already does.

“Take your plate in when you’re done here?” Cas asks. “I’m going to head over to talk to Hunter and Erica now. Tyler should be in at ten to relieve you.” 

Dean bites his tongue so as not to say anything else rude about Cas’s choice of company, and Cas departs with that dorky little wave of his that never fails to get Dean. Dean sinks back in his chair, feet propped on the desk, and pulls his plate into his lap.

Eating only kills so much time, and Dean’s book turns out to be a quicker read than expected, so he spends the last half-hour of his desk shift with nothing to do. When Tyler walks in at precisely ten minutes to ten, Dean is leaned back in his chair, attempting to balance a pencil on the tip of his finger. The bright chime of the bell, and Tyler’s equally cheerful, “Hi, Mr. W.,” startle him badly enough that he fumbles, knocking the pencil into the air, where he fails to catch it, and it falls to the floor.

“Hey, Tyler,” he grunts, folding himself in half to retrieve the fallen writing utensil, and nearly knocking his head on the underside of the desk. “How’re you doing?” he asks, finally straightening up. His back protests the movement and he grimaces.

“I’m great.”

Dean nods along, only half listening as Tyler recounts the events of his day. There’s a bit of a pang inside his chest, as there often is when he talks with Tyler. There’s something about the young man’s perpetual earnestness and good cheer that can’t help but remind Dean of Jack. Blond, slender and with the air of an overgrown puppy in a cardigan, Tyler even looks like Jack.

Dean’s never mentioned it to Cas, but he knows Cas notices the resemblance too, and so, whenever possible, Dean tries to be the one to deal directly with Tyler. It’s not that he thinks Cas can’t take it, especially after all these years, but Dean hates that distant, melancholy look he gets, and the way he still goes quiet when he thinks about Jack. They all miss Jack, and they all mourned him, having already lost him too many times in too short a lifetime, but Cas had taken Jack’s final sacrifice—merging his consciousness with Chuck’s and Amara’s in a form that could no longer interfere directly with the Earth—hardest of all.

“Does the other Mr. W. not like me?” Tyler had asked once, drooping in a way that made Dean feel like the lowest of the low. Dean had shooed Cas away so he could discuss Tyler’s schedule with him alone. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Dean had been hasty to assure him. “You haven’t done anything wrong, kid. It’s just—” He rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to come up with the right words. “You remind Cas of someone he lost. Of his—our—son.” Because Jack had been both of theirs, and Sam’s too.

Dean wonders what Tyler thinks happened to Jack, but he doesn’t ask. Tyler definitely thinks that he was Dean and Cas’s son together, that Dean and Cas are a thing, but that doesn’t seem important enough to correct, especially since Tyler has the tact not to talk about their personal lives with Cas.

Dean stands and stretches now, glad to turn the desk over to the younger man. “New guests in room eight,” he tells him. “I expect them to stay a few days, but if they do check out early, they’ve got the discount code. Not expecting anyone else tonight, so it should be quiet, but call me if you need me.”

“No problem.” Tyler takes his seat behind the desk. “Oh hey, do you want your book?” He holds up the battered paperback, and Dean waves him off.

“Nah, I’m done with it. Go ahead and read it if you get bored. Night, Tyler.” Dean takes his empty plate and heads for the door.

“Night, Mr. W.”

He’s expecting a quiet night with Cas, which is why he’s surprised, when he closes the door behind him, to hear a murmur of voices and laughter from the direction of the kitchen. Since when does Cas invite people over? How’d they get in without passing Dean in the office?

At the end of the hall, Dean pauses, taking in the scene in the kitchen. Cas and the two younger hunters are sitting around the simple, wooden table, glasses in their hands and a bowl of barbecue chips between them. A bottle of what looks like whiskey from here sits between them, not one from their own stock, so something supplied by Erica or Hunter.

In the yellow light of the lamp that hangs over the table, Cas smiles against the rim of his glass. The light catches on the grey strands that mix with the dark hair at his temples, and on the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He has never been more beautiful.

“Wait,” says Erica, still laughing. “He took you where? What the hell kind of date is that?”

Cas chuckles, a warm, rich sound that Dean never tires of hearing. “It was not intended as a date.”

“But—” she protests. “Didn’t he know?”

“It was many years ago,” Cas tells her. “I didn’t understand, myself, at the time.”

“But you two are—now, right?” Hunter asks and Dean can’t begin to imagine what he means.

“No, we’re not,” Cas answers firmly, and for the first time since Dean has been watching, a shadow passes over his face, a sort of wistful sadness that Dean doesn’t like. He curses that tactless asshole for putting it there.

Stepping out of the hall, where he has been hanging back, unnoticed, Dean fixes a warning frown on Hunter. “Hey, Cas. I didn’t know we had company.”

The smile Cas turns his way feels private, intimate, even with the two younger hunters in the room. “Hello, Dean. We came in through the pool so we wouldn’t disturb you. Erica and Hunter brought a bottle of rye whiskey for us, so it seemed polite to invite them in to wait for you.”

“Rye, huh?” Dean remarks, examining the half-empty bottle.

“I’m Canadian,” Erica says with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Let me pour you a glass,” Hunter says, already reaching for the bottle. Dean gives him a tight-lipped smile that he seems to take for friendliness, and accepts the drink.

“So,” he says, after a long, slow sip. This stuff’s not bad. “What’re you all talking about in here?”

Erica pours herself another glass. “Cas is telling us stories. Did you really take him to a brothel?”

Dean fixes a look on Cas. “You’re telling them about that?” He settles into his chair with a comfortable snort. “Yeah, I did. We thought it was our last night on Earth, and he’d just told me he was a millenia-old virgin. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“That’s what you used the ‘last night on Earth’ line for?” Hunter scoffs. “And here I’ve always thought you had game.”

“ _Hey._ ” Dean doesn’t pout. “I’ve got plenty of game.”

“All I’m saying,” Hunter says innocently, “is that if I’d been in your shoes, I’d have offered to help Castiel out personally, you get me?”

Oh, Dean gets him alright, and he doesn’t like the implication. He bristles. How dare this little twerp objectify Cas when he’s sitting right there? “In case it wasn’t clear, Cas was a literal, _actual_ angel at the time.”

“And?” challenges Hunter.

 _Jesus._ Do these kids just have no shame anymore? Of course Dean couldn’t have made a move on Cas then. He’d been maybe a year out of hell, fresh out of kickstarting the apocalypse with his brother, an ugly, broken thing. Cas, even on the outs with Heaven for the first time, had been something holy, something good, something he didn’t deserve to touch.

He’d thought of it, of course. He’d wanted. But he’d known better. Castiel wouldn’t want someone like him.

Dean looks to Cas to back him up, but the former angel avoids his eyes, and the grimace on his face stops Dean short. It’s somehow embarrassed and sad and pensive all at once, but most of all Cas looks deeply uncomfortable, as if he wishes the Empty would change its mind and come for him after all.

Does it hurt that even the suggestion of sex with Dean makes Cas that uncomfortable? Of course it does. But that’s not what’s important right now. What’s important is that clearly a line has been crossed. It was one thing when Dean was being put on the defensive, but trust Hunter fucking Chase to go trampling all over Cas’s boundaries without a care in the world, after Cas had been nice enough to invite him into their home. It’s time to steer this conversation back to safer waters.

So, “That’s enough of that,” Dean puts his foot down. “If you want to stay, you lay off Cas.” He drains the last of his drink and pours another. “Tell me about what you think you’re hunting.” 

Erica glances at Cas with a rueful smile. “Sorry, Cas. “ She laughs. “I guess we got carried away.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” echoes the dick.

Cas’s lips tip gently upward as he answers, “I’m alright, but you were making Dean uncomfortable. He’s right, why don’t you tell us about your hunt?” 

Dean only half pays attention to the details of the hunt. Erica and Hunter are both good hunters, he acknowledges grudgingly. They’ll figure it out without Dean’s expertise. Instead, he watches Cas out of the corner of his eye, breath catching in his throat.

Cas wears a kind expression, as he listens far more attentively than Dean, but there’s something lurking in the back of his eyes, a sadness that Dean doesn't know how to deal with. 

Cas had said he was happy, back at the end of Claire and Kaia’s visit. Has something changed? Or did Cas lie?

Dean chews his lip and swirls the last of his whiskey around in the bottom of his glass, letting the conversation drift around him.

*****

Dean’s feeling warm and liquid by the time their guests leave, but he still can’t stop worrying at the idea—that he could have made a move on Cas back when things were so new—like a loose tooth.

“Kids these days, huh?” he remarks to Cas as he pulls back his sheets. Cas is already in his own bed, head nestled into his pillow and covers pulled up to his chin, but he makes an inquiring noise in Dean’s direction. “Where’d they get a crazy idea like that?” He tries to keep his tone light, like this is something they can joke about now, like he isn’t pining over his entirely disinterested best friend.

There’s a pause, as Cas realizes what he’s talking about, then a quiet, “Oh,” barely loud enough to be heard. “I’m sure they were just having fun, Dean. They didn’t mean anything by it.”

Dean pauses in the act of getting into bed, carefully not looking over at Cas. “Right.” He clears his throat.

Cas sighs, low and gusty, and there’s the rustle of sheets. Dean can’t help but glance over his shoulder to see that Cas has rolled onto his side, back to Dean.

“Right,” he repeats with a sigh of his own. “G’night, Cas.” He climbs into bed, and pulls the covers over himself, facing his own wall.

Cas’s voice is soft as he answers, “Goodnight, Dean.”


	5. Chapter 5

After ten years in town, most of the locals recognize Dean and Cas, and they recognize most of the locals, even if they generally keep to themselves when they come out to the bar.

But there’s no reason they need to, Dean realizes, as Cas returns a friendly nod from Rose, at her usual place behind the bar, already heading to their usual booth. No reason, other than his own unreasonable desire to keep Cas to himself.

Maybe Cas would like to make friends, he thinks, rather than remaining forever friendly acquaintances with the locals. Hell, maybe Cas would like to date.

A heavy feeling sinks to the pit of his stomach, as he realizes that that’s exactly what he should be encouraging Cas to do, as a good friend. If anyone deserves to find love, it’s his serious, sarcastic, _loyal_ best friend. What if the only reason Cas has been holding himself back from looking has been for Dean’s sake, because Dean’s had no inclination to go out looking for himself in much longer than his younger self would ever have cared to admit. 

Dean’s got what he’s looking for right beside him, even if not in the way he’d like. He doesn’t need to look for anything else. But that doesn’t mean Cas wouldn’t have appreciated a wingman all these years.

Who would he set Cas up with, though? It’s not as if their tiny Nebraska town has a booming singles scene. There’s Rose, he supposes, and Caroline who works at the local grocery store has always seemed to have a soft spot for Cas. There’s also Wendy, who sells honey and potted herbs at the farmers market Dean and Cas sometimes attend two towns over. She and Cas are friendly.

None of them feel right for Cas, but that could just be Dean’s jealousy talking.

And how does he even know Cas wants to date women? Sure, there were Meg and that reaper bitch once upon a time, and Cas had once seemed keen enough for that date that turned out not to be a date with his boss, Nora. But they’ve never really talked about it, and Cas has had a lot longer to figure out what he’s into this time around.

If he is into dudes, though, that presents a problem. If dating in a small town offers limited choices, finding a guy to date sounds both unlikely and risky as fuck. 

But Dean is getting ahead of himself. He signals to Rose for their drinks, and once he has them in hand, joins Cas in their booth.

“So,” Dean says, aiming for casual and passing over Cas’s drink, “have you ever thought about dating?”

Cas’s head whips up to face him so quickly, Dean worries he’ll give himself whiplash. “Dating,” he says, in that whiskey-rough voice. His impossibly blue eyes are wide. Dean hates himself just a little bit. “Um…”

“I mean,” Dean says, steamrolling on ahead without giving Cas a chance to gather his thoughts, because even if he knows what the outcome here is gonna be, he doesn’t want to have to hear it. He takes a gulp from his beer and goes on, “I don’t know what you’re into, but you shouldn’t let me hold you back from going after something you want. And if you’re looking for a wingman”—he cringes, knowing he’s going to regret this offer—”I’m in.”

“Oh,” says Cas, voice going somehow small. His voice is subdued as he adds, “I don’t think I’m interested in dating, Dean, but thank you for thinking of me.” His fingers pick at the label of his beer.

Dean frowns. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s no trouble to help you.”

Cas doesn’t look back at him. “I’m sure.”

*****

That should be the end of it, but Dean finds he can’t leave it alone. He should be relieved that Cas doesn’t want to date other people, but something about the way Cas had reacted, the way he hadn’t been able to look at Dean when he’d insisted he was sure, niggles at him. 

It’s as if Cas had been holding something back. 

Maybe he’s worried Dean would tease him, the way he still teases Sam sometimes. But Dean knows Sam can take it. He knows this would all be new to Cas. He’d be gentle. Or maybe, despite Dean’s reassurances, Cas feels bad about leaving him behind. And Dean’s not gonna deny, that makes him feel good, that Cas cares so much. But he’s also determined not to hold Cas back. It’s not Cas’s fault that Dean’s a sadsack, too busy pining over his best friend to even think about dating someone new.

He’ll just have to make it clear to Cas that he really is okay if Cas dates.

He starts small. The next time they’re at the grocery store, he ducks away just before they reach the front of the checkout line, leaving Cas to bag the groceries, and more importantly, to chat with Caroline, the cashier, alone. 

Caroline, Dean knows from small-talk over the years, is a single mother in her forties, with one teenage son, and an elderly father. She’s cheerful, if occasionally harried, and puts a lot of her free time into putting together community events. She’d be good for Cas, Dean thinks.

Dean pretends to peruse the bulletin board with its flyers for local events and small businesses—many long outdated and ready to be taken down—but most of his attention is on Cas and the cashier. There’s nothing flirtatious in Cas’s demeanor, to Dean’s mingled frustration and guilty joy. His smile is no more than friendly, and he bags the groceries in a business-like fashion. Luckily—unluckily?—Cas’s natural charm seems to be working anyway, because Caroline looks like she’s flirting hard enough for the both of them.

Dean watches as she flips her dark ponytail over her shoulder and touches Cas’s arm as she leans in close to say something to him. He feels a dark stirring of jealousy in his gut as that provokes a genuine smile from Cas, and swiftly quashes it down. This is what he wanted, after all. But then Cas and Caroline both straighten up, and she pats his arm one last time before turning back to the till to count out his change. Cas glances over at Dean, and he realizes that’s his cue to go back and help with the bags.

Cas waves to Caroline as they exit the store, and she calls, “You take care, hon,” after him.

Once they’re out into the small parking lot, Dean nudges him with his elbow. “I think she likes you.”

Cas transfers his bags to his other hand. “Careful of the eggs, Dean.”

“Seriously, though,” Dean says, once he’s unlocked the Impala’s trunk and is loading the bags inside, “if you ever wanted to ask her out, we could rearrange the schedule so you could have the night off.”

The look Cas gives him is quizzical. “No, I don’t want to do that,” he says at last, while Dean closes the trunk. “Besides,” he adds, as he slides into the passenger seat, and Dean gets behind the wheel, “Caroline is not interested in me that way.”

*****

Okay, Dean thinks, Cas clearly has no idea of his own desirability, and he’s hardly going to put himself out there unless he’s convinced someone actually wants him to. Dean could build up his confidence by detailing all the ways in which he wants Cas, but he lives with the guy, and he doesn’t want Cas to feel uncomfortable afterwards. Instead, he’s got to get one of Cas’s potential dates to compliment the guy.

Wendy from the farmer’s market is the perfect choice for that. The next Saturday, Dean makes sure Marissa is on the desk and Tyler is on cleaning duty, and he and Cas make an early start, driving two towns over to catch the farmer’s market just as it’s opening up, with all the best wares on display. 

Cas takes his time, wandering through the aisles of booths, stopping to examine the produce here or accept a free sample there. A part of Dean wants to urge him on, hurry him towards Wendy’s booth—to get it over with, the part that wants Cas for himself says—but Cas is clearly enjoying himself too much to rush him, especially when Cas stops at a stall selling homemade baked goods, and spends a good ten minutes selecting the perfect pie for Dean. 

Pie in a reusable cloth bag, they resume their stroll, and Dean finds himself focusing less and less on the plan, and more on the simple joy of spending this time with Cas. He’d never admit it, to Sam especially, but Dean’s grown to like the farmer’s market over the years, and today is the perfect day for it, with the sun shining in the blue sky overhead and tree leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. The urge overtakes him to take Cas’s hand, like so many of the couples here, and it feels so right, he very nearly gives in. That disaster is only averted when they come upon Wendy’s stall.

“Castiel, Dean!” Wendy greets them. “My favourite customers. How are you doing today?”

Wendy is a breezy honey-blonde with hardworking hands and a warm smile, and the worst part of this plan is that Dean genuinely likes her. She sells herbs, fresh and potted, and little jars of honey, and the first time they’d met, she and Cas had bonded while Dean contemplated whether he should buy a rosemary plant shaped like a pine tree. 

He had, and it makes the kitchen smell awesome.

“Oh, you know,” Dean says now, clapping a hand on Cas’s shoulder. “I’m pretty good, but Cas is awesome. Doesn’t he look great?”

Wendy laughs. “He does.” She winks at Cas. Dean is both pleased and chagrined to notice a faint pink blush on Cas’s cheeks. “Looks like he’s been raiding your closet again,” she teases. “He always looks good in your clothes.”

Dean looks again, and yep, Cas is definitely wearing a shirt he stole from Dean. It looks better on him than on Dean, too, damn it all. Dean can hardly tear his eyes away.

Cas shrugs, an awkward little smile playing around his lips. “Dean’s clothes are very comfortable.”

“I know what you mean,” Wendy says, holding out the arm of her plaid overshirt. “I stole this from my wife. It’s my favourite.”

 _Oh._ “Wife, huh?” Dean remarks, casually.

“Yeah,” Wendy says. “I usually keep it quiet, ‘cause we get all sorts here at the market, but I figured you two wouldn’t mind.”

“How long have you been married?” Cas asks, sounding interested, and not at all disappointed that Wendy is apparently unavailable. 

“Twenty years next month,” is her proud answer. “She’s a nurse, so she’s usually sleeping or working on Saturday mornings, but if you come again next week, you can meet her.”

Dean rubs an embarrassed hand over the back of his neck. “Well, uh, so much for my plan to set you up with Cas, huh?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly, ducking his head away from the odd look Cas gives him.

“Set me up with…” Wendy repeats. “Oh, wow. Sorry, I’d assumed you two were—”

“Oh, uh, no,” Dean interrupts her.

“Dean’s straight,” Cas adds, and Dean’s so busy staring at him—because _Dean’s straight_ is not _we’re straight_ is not _I’m straight,_ and maybe Cas is into guys after all—that he almost doesn’t correct him.

Almost. “Wait.” He blinks. “No, I’m not.” 

“Oh,” says Cas, eloquently, and they end up staring at each other, both wide-eyed and cautious, until Wendy clears her throat.

“Soooo, sorry I made things awkward,” she laughs.

“Not at all,” Cas hastens to assure her.

“Totally my fault,” Dean agrees. “Look, uh, why don’t we buy some stuff. I need some herbs, and Cas, you get whatever honey you want. The big expensive jar. And some beeswax candles. Whatever you want.”

Wendy raises her eyebrows, and Dean can feel himself reddening to the roots of his hair, but he resolutely focuses his attention on picking out the potted plants he wants, while Wendy wraps up the goods for Cas. He pretends he can’t feel Cas’s gaze boring into him.

*****

With this new revelation in mind, that Cas is _not straight_ , Dean wonders if he should try setting him up with a man instead. He doesn’t like the notion any more than he liked setting Cas up with women, but he wants the guy to be happy, so he’ll suck it up.

A bigger problem is finding a man that Cas could date. Their town is not exactly teeming with out and proud guys, and none of the locals that Dean’s gotten to know over the years ping his gaydar—though that might be a bit rusty, seeing as he missed all the clues about Wendy _and_ Cas himself. He figures that what gay—or bi or whatever—folks there were in town had left for queerer pastures over the years. So, no real dating pool for Cas.

Until Jacob Hartson checks into the motel. Dean’s on cleaning duty when he checks in, down on his knees vacuuming under the bed in room six. He notices when he brings the cleaning cart back, checking the ledger over Cas’s shoulder, and exclaiming when he sees the familiar name.

“Hey, Jacob Hartson! I know him. How long’s he staying?”

“I’m not sure.” Cas nibbles on the end of his pen, and Dean doesn’t watch his mouth. “Do you know him?”

“He’s an old friend. We hunted together once or twice.”

They’d done more than hunt together, which is how Dean knows he’d be a good choice for Cas. Jacob is funny and considerate, and Dean remembers he has _great_ hands, all work-calloused and steady and sure—and okay, maybe he doesn’t love the thought of them on Cas’s skin, but this isn’t about what Dean wants. He’s pretty sure Cas will like Jacob, and of course, Jacob will want Cas. Dean just has to pitch this right.

“Let me put this stuff away, then I’ll go say hi to him.”

*****

“Dean!” Jacob greets Dean’s knock with a wide grin, opening the door wider to let him in. “Come on in. I was hoping I’d see you here. Beer?”

“Sure,” Dean agrees, leaning against the wall divider that provides some measure of privacy when the front door is open. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

Jacob pulls out a pair of Kingdom beers, popping off the caps with the iron ring he wears, and offering one to Dean. “I thought I was gonna be disappointed when I checked in without seeing you. I got to meet your partner, though. You lucky dog, you.”

“Heh.” Dean rubs a hand over his mouth. “I mean, Cas is my business partner, and my best friend, but we’re not...we’re not together.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Jacob shakes his head at Dean, still grinning in his easygoing way, teeth white in his tan face. 

If Dean hadn’t already earmarked Jacob as the perfect date for Cas, he could do a lot worse than having another go with him. Not that Dean has truly been able to muster any interest in anyone but Cas in years now. He used to take comfort in casual sex, but these days, it just doesn’t measure up. He makes a noncommittal noise in response to Jacob’s question.

“Hmm.” Jacob leans back on the credenza that houses the mini-fridge, sipping his own beer. “He straight?”

“No, actually. But we live together and work together. No sense rocking that boat.” Dean shrugs as if it’s unimportant. He can do this. He can set Cas up with Jacob. “The guy could do with a date, though,” he adds and sees Jacob’s eyes light up with interest. “The pickings around here are a little slim.”

Jacob’s mouth curls up at the corners. “Are you suggesting that I should date your ‘just a business partner-slash-best friend’?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, hating the words as they come out of his mouth, “that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.” He’s surprised when he manages to keep his tone light, and he somehow keeps himself from grinding his teeth when he adds, “In fact, I’m on the evening shift tonight, but Cas has the night off. Why don’t you take him out for dinner or a drink?”

Jacob does not have to contemplate long. “What the hell. He’s pretty easy on the eyes. Who am I to say no? I’ll do it. That is, if you’re sure you don’t want him for yourself.”

Dean wants Cas for himself. He wants him for himself so badly it hurts. But Cas isn’t his, and Dean owes it to Cas to not be selfish here. “Nah, man.” His smile makes his face hurt. “Go for it.”

They finish their beers in silence. Jacob doesn’t seem to notice the awkwardness Dean is feeling, which is just as well. At any rate, he seems cheerful when they make their way back over to the motel office so Jacob can ask Cas out, and Dean can hopefully make his escape into the apartment before he has to hear Cas’s eager acceptance.

Luck is not on his side. 

“Dean, hold on,” Cas says before Dean’s hand can touch the doorknob back into their place. “I wanted to talk to you about ordering new towels. But first”—he turns his attention back to their guest, while Dean is frozen in place, watching the interaction—“Jacob, was it? How can I help you?”

“Actually”—Jacob sidles up to the desk, charm dialed up to eleven—“I’m an old friend of Dean’s, and I was hoping I could treat you to dinner tonight.”

“Oh.” Cas’s mouth turns downwards slightly. “Unfortunately, one of us needs to watch the desk here. It was supposed to be Dean’s night, but I don’t mind staying here, if the two of you would like to catch up.”

Dean resists the urge to bury his face in his palms. He should have predicted this outcome. Cas really is hopeless at telling when someone’s interested.

To his credit, Jacob’s smile only falters slightly, and he recovers quickly. “No, uh, Dean and I can catch up another day. I was hoping to have dinner with you.”

“With me?” Cas repeats, and Jesus Christ, when did the guy get so dense?

“He’s asking you out, Cas.” Dean doesn’t quite succeed in keeping the bark out of his voice. “On a date,” he adds in a softer tone, just in case Cas isn’t getting it.

“A date?” Cas parrots, eyes going wide.

“Yeah,” Jacob grins, easy, like he’s entirely unbothered by this awkward scene. “Dean suggested it, and I’d like to get to know you better.”

Now Cas’s eyes dart to Dean, and Dean can’t quite meet his inscrutable gaze. 

He ducks his head. “You should go. Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

Cas continues to eye him for a long moment. Dean avoids his eyes. Finally, Cas swallows with a click and turns his attention back to Jacob. “Thank you,” he says. “I’d enjoy that.”

“Great,” Jacob says. Dean wishes he could hate him, the fairness of that be damned, but Jacob looks genuinely pleased, and who could blame him? He obviously recognizes that Cas is something special. “Let’s say seven o’clock. Do I just pick you up here?”

Cas looks softly baffled at the idea. “You don’t need to pick me up. We can just meet out front.”

Jacob is unfazed. “That works for me.”

“Great,” Dean says, unable to take any more. “That’s settled. Cas, you wanted to talk to me about towels?”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Jacob gives a little wave as he opens the door. “I’ll see you at seven, Cas. Can I call you Cas?”

“Of course,” Cas answers.

Dean hates himself a little bit.

*****

By ten o’clock, Cas and Jacob still aren’t back. Dean doesn’t even want to think about what that could mean.

Other than a request for more towels from room three, the evening’s been completely dead.

As usual, Rowena is the one to answer Sam’s phone. 

“What are you, the sasquatch’s secretary?” he grumbles.

“Well, hello to you, too, grumpyguts. Samuel, your brother is on the phone.”

“Put it on speaker,” he hears Sam call, and then, clearer, “Hey, Dean. What’s up? I was thinking of heading to bed soon.”

Dean snorts. “How are you such an old man? Since when do you sleep before midnight?”

“Who said anything about sleeping?” Rowena cuts in, and Dean groans in response.

“Seriously?”

“ _Rowena,”_ Sam chides.

Dean can practically hear her smirk over the line.

“Did you need something specific?” Sam asks. “You don’t normally call this time of night.”

“No, I didn’t need something.” Dean lets his head drop back, thunking softly against the top of the chair. “Can’t a guy just call his brother to chat?”

“Oh,” Rowena says, her voice surprisingly gentle. “Did you and Castiel have a lovers’ quarrel?”

“What?” Dean says. “No. Cas and I aren’t fighting. And we’re not lovers either. He’s actually out on a date right now, if you must know.”

Dean does not appreciate Rowena’s knowing “Oh.” He appreciates Sam’s awkward “Is that what you’re upset about?” even less.

“I’m not upset,” he denies, even though that’s not strictly true. “Hell, I’m the one that set them up. I was just bored, and thought we could chat. But if the two of your are gonna be assholes, then never mind.” He’s being irrational and he knows it, even if Rowena’s clicking tongue weren’t a giveaway.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself. He tries not to be that reactive bastard anymore. He lets it out when Sam says, “Sorry, Dean.” It’s clear Sam doesn’t quite understand what the problem is, but he sounds remorseful anyway.

“Naw.” Dean sighs. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bite your head off. Look, it really is dead at the desk tonight. I wasn’t lying about being bored. Tell me what the two of you have been up to lately. Or, hell, tell me about your research, even. Just help me kill some time.”

Naturally, Sam jumps at the invitation to talk about research, with Rowena providing extra commentary in the background. _Nerds_ , Dean thinks affectionately. He’s not particularly interested in the subtle intricacies of seventeenth-century spellcraft, not the way they both clearly are, but listening, and asking questions about it keeps his mind occupied, until the tinkling of the bell over the office door heralds Cas’s return.

“Oh, hey, Cas is home,” he interrupts the debate that Sam and Rowena have fallen into over the provenance of some obscure tome. “I’m gonna check in with him, and talk to you later.”

“Sure thing. Night, Dean.” Sam sounds thoroughly distracted, probably already thinking of which sources he’s going to use to refute Rowena’s argument. 

Dean smirks. Time to leave them to it. “Night, Sam. Rowena.” He hits _end call_ and turns his attention to Cas. “Hey, buddy. Good date?”

Dean tries to subtly examine Cas for signs that the date was—what? A success? There’s nothing to really indicate either way. Cas’s hair and clothes aren’t out of place, his lips aren’t red from kissing, he doesn’t even seem particularly tipsy. Dean shrugs off the unwelcome breath of relief. He wanted Cas to have a good experience, he reminds himself.

“It was pleasant,” Cas answers, damning with faint praise. “Jacob is very nice.”

“So, uh”—Dean runs a hand over his mouth, a dead giveaway that he’s uncomfortable. He prays Cas doesn’t notice—”you think you’re going to see him again?” 

“I imagine we’ll continue to see each other from time to time, as long as he’s staying here,” is Cas’s not entirely helpful answer. 

How is this Dean’s life? “No, I mean, do you think you’re gonna date him again?”

“Oh.” Cas casts Dean an apologetic look, and Dean’s heart sinks into his stomach. “No, I don’t think so. I know it was important to you that I go on this date with your friend, but I’m simply not interested in Jacob romantically. I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean is too busy processing the fact that Cas is apparently _not_ going to leave him behind to ride off into the sunset with Jacob, so it takes him a moment to respond. “You don’t need to be sorry,” he tells Cas, once he’s finally gotten his wits together. “I just thought the two of you might, y’know, hit it off. I wanted you to have a nice night.”

Cas’s smile at that is soft, but there’s a hint of wistfulness to it that makes Dean fret. Ruthlessly, he shoves his worries down.

“It was very kind of you to think of me, Dean.” Cas comes around to perch on the edge of the reception desk. “But—” he adds, and Dean swallows, waiting for the shoe to drop, “I’m not interested in dating right now.” 

Dean’s not sure why it stings. If anything, it should feel better, knowing that Cas simply isn’t interested in anyone, rather than not interested in Dean in particular. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding out hope that maybe, someday, Cas’s feelings might change, that he might look back at Dean the way Dean has been looking at him all along. So much for that.

“Sorry,” he says, trying to hide his wince. “I guess after we talked to Wendy the other week, I thought you might be into guys.”

Cas frowns, and despite everything, Dean’s fingers itch to reach out and smooth the lines from his brow. He restrains himself.

Cas seems like he’s struggling to find the right words. “I’m perfectly capable of being attracted to men,” he says at last, “or any other gender. I’m just...not looking. I don’t want that. I have what I want in life.”

Dean should maybe accept Cas’s word for it, and let things go, but that last sentence comes out with a bit less conviction than the ones before it. And dammit, if anyone deserves to get what they want, it’s Cas. 

“You sure?” he asks, holding up a hand when Cas starts to protest. “Okay, I’ll lay off the dating thing. But, c’mon, there’s nothing else you want? You don’t want to get out there and chase your dreams? You don’t have to stay here on my account.”

Cas doesn’t answer the question. Instead he deflects. “Jacob told me stories about your friendship. Until recently, I hadn’t realized you were ‘into men’, either.”

Damn it all. Even after all these years, Dean can still hear the dorky finger quotes in Cas’s voice. 

He is so stupidly in love. 


	6. Chapter 6

_"Living on the road my friend was gonna keep you free and clean/Now you wear your skin like iron and your breath's as hard as kerosene…"_

They're at Rose’s again and Dean is humming along under his breath.

"You like this song," Cas remarks, eyes crinkling over his beer bottle. 

"I do," Dean admits, letting himself sprawl back a little further in the wooden booth. His eyes trace over those familiar lines, making note of where they’re deeper now, of which ones always remain, a shadow of Cas's smiles. "It reminds me of us, y'know? Growin' old in an old hotel. Heh."

But the smile has dropped abruptly from Cas's eyes, even the unfading laughter lines looking strained as he gazes down into his bottle. "I—I suppose that's one way to look at it," he says, in a flat, dead voice that has Dean scrambling to sit up straight. "I didn't realize you still felt that way, but I did—"

"Aw hell," Dean cuts him off, before Cas can let the self-deprecation drop from his lips. "I said something wrong. What'd I say wrong, Cas? I mean, I know it's not exactly like the song—neither of us is dead, for one—"

Cas’s mouth pinches downward. "It's a song about betrayal, Dean."

"What? No it isn't."

Castiel nods slowly. "Lefty betrayed Pancho. That's how he died."

Dean thinks back over the words of the song, replaying them with the new information. _The dust that Pancho bit down south ended up in Lefty's mouth..._ Well, damn. It seems like Cas has a point.

"Well, now I feel like an idiot." Dean makes a face and downs his beer. "Here I thought he just missed his friend, and the feds felt bad for him."

"Not quite." Castiel finishes off the last drops of his beer, and graces Dean with a small, forgiving smile as he gets to his feet. "I'll go get us another round."

Dean waves him off with an idle two fingers, and is left alone with the uncomfortable realization that even after all these years, Cas had expected Dean's words to be—what?—an accusation? This cannot stand. He starts to clamber to his feet to go after him, but he spies some hipster-looking kids eyeing the booth with interest. Grumbling, he drops down on the bench to guard their territory. Cas and him have been coming to this bar since they bought the motel. No way is he giving up their booth to some 'just-passing-through' college kids who probably _just love_ this place ironically.

He crosses his arms and glowers at the lot of them, hopefully playing up his role as a grumpy old man. 

Cas notices the direction of Dean's gaze as he returns, placing two bottles on the table. "Be nice," he mutters under his breath. "They're renting room six."

Well, damn. Actual paying customers. Dean supposes he can behave himself just this once. Besides, he has bigger things to worry about, like—

"The hell was that, thinking I was gonna bring up some old betrayal, huh? I haven't thought about that shit in years."

Castiel can't quite meet his eyes. "I have hurt you in the past, Dean."

"And I've hurt you," Dean argues. "But that was years ago. It's all water under the bridge now. We're good."

Castiel's gaze is still distant, and he doesn't answer for a long moment, staring mournfully at something Dean can't see while he sips his drink.

"Cas?" Dean tries again. "We are good, aren't we?"

Castiel's mouth twists momentarily downward, in a way that makes something squeeze in Dean's chest. "I'd thought so, yes," he admits quietly, "but lately, you haven't seemed to want me around."

"The hell are you talking about?" Dean demands. "Of course I want you around. You're my best friend."

"You tried to send me on a roadtrip with Claire," Cas says. "You tried to send me on dates. You tried suggesting I go out and ‘chase my dreams’. What else am I supposed to conclude, other than that you want me out of your hair?"

Dean stares at Cas with his beer suspended halfway to his lips. "You thought I was trying to get rid of you?" 

Cas gives an uncomfortable-looking shrug and Dean feels like the insensitive dumbass he apparently still is. But Dean's a different person these days, a better person. It's time to clear some things up, for once and for all.

He chuckles ruefully. "How many years on, and we're still no better at this talking thing. Cas"—Dean pauses until Cas meets his eyes and holds his gaze—"I want you around. I always want you around. But I want you to have a choice. You deserve more than just growing old in a crappy motel with a beat-up hunter."

Castiel furrows his brow at Dean, that old familiar squint. "I _like_ our crappy motel. And I do have a choice, Dean. It's you. I chose you." He stares him down, daring Dean to protest his getting onto this honesty game too.

"But—" Dean tries to argue, and Cas shuts him down.

"I chose you. I'm going to keep choosing you."

"But," Dean says again, helpless, "don't you want _more_?"

Cas regards him steadily, eyes fathomless. "I only want what you are willing to give me. If you never want more, then I am content to remain as we are."

That sounds a lot like…

But it can't be. Can it?

"Wait," Dean says, brain slowing to a halt, even as a bubble of hope rises sharply in his chest. "Cas, that sounds like—do you want more with _me_?" He hardly dares put it into words. It seems impossible, and yet—

Cas looks away, taking a swig of his beer. "Like I said, not if you don't want—"

"Shut up. I want," Dean interrupts him before he can make some sort of escape. He can still barely believe this is happening, but his hand shoots out and grasps Cas by the forearm, where he still holds his beer in mid-air. "I _want_ ," he repeats, voice coming out a sandpaper rasp. "I've wanted. Cas, you have no idea, all these years…"

Cas's eyes are on his again, big and dark and awestruck in the dim light of the bar. Dean watches, mesmerized, as the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. "Dean," he says, and there's something cracking and raw in his voice, ancient ice floes breaking apart. "I think we should finish these beers. And then"—that tongue again—"then we should go home."

It takes everything in Dean not to simply chug his beer back with all the finesse of a college freshman at their first frat party. If he were his younger self, he would toss it back, wipe the foam from his lip, and drag Cas back to the motel to get between the sheets without further ado.

But, he recognizes, this is something fraught. Something delicate, gossamer. Something decades in the making that can’t be rushed and torn and satisfied simply with sweaty lovemaking. This is so much deeper than that. 

Cas is his best friend, his home, the love of his life. They have torn down worlds for each other. They have fought and laughed and lived side-by-side. This deserves to be treated with all the gravity of that. All the gravity of their long history.

Dean raises his bottle to his mouth and takes a silent sip. Cas mirrors him, never breaking eye contact. A breath is held between them.

Dean’s not sure who moves first, but under the table, their feet seek each other out, nudge together, until they are pressed against each other hidden by the darkness of the booth. A secret smile passes between their eyes, and Dean takes another sip of his drink. A minute later, Cas does the same.

They finish their drinks like this, in silence, speaking only with their eyes. A ball of warmth and good will suffuses Dean, and he fights the urge to laugh out loud at his good fortune.

Cas wants him. _Cas wants him._ All these years, being afraid to rock the boat, lest Cas leave forever, and Cas wants him too.

He watches Cas’s eyes crinkle over his beer bottle, and knows that he is the luckiest sonovabitch that ever lived. His fingers inch across the scarred wooden table top, until just the tips are touching Cas’s own, and finishes his beer in utter satisfaction.

Finally, they finish their beers and set the empty glass bottles aside. Dean makes no move to leave, so Cas’s hand reaches forward from where just their fingertips have been touching, until it covers Dean’s own. He squeezes once, softly. “Should we go home?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yes.” It comes out as more of a croak, and he should be embarrassed that he’s getting choked up by this, but goddammit, this is _Cas._ This is more than Dean has ever dreamed of, and if he can’t be a sentimental mess over this, then when can he be?

Cas releases his hand to slide out of the booth, and Dean feels instantly bereft, but he joins him in standing. Cas takes his hand again without fanfare, and Dean squeezes back this time, hoping to convey all his gratitude through the simple gesture. Based on the soft, melting look Cas gives him, he succeeded.

They make their way out of the bar hand-in-hand. Dean glances around to see if any of the regulars notice, but no one so much as blinks. He wonders if their neighbours have been assuming they were together this whole time.

Cas raises his free hand in a little wave to Rose as they pass the bar, and she shoots them a smile, and then they’re stepping through the swinging door and out into the cool night air. Their shoulders press close together as they make the short walk back to their motel—to their home.

They enter through the front office, and Tyler greets them cheerfully, “You’re back early tonight, Mr. W. and Mr. W.”

Dean chuckles and pulls Cas closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, we are. Just, uh, heading home.”

Cas casts Tyler a kind smile and leans further into Dean’s embrace. “We have some things we need to talk about.”

“ _Ohhhh,_ ” Tyler says, as if catching on, and gives his best attempt at a broad wink, one that nearly has Dean bursting out in guffaws. He holds it back, out of kindness to the kid. Tyler doesn’t need to be laughed at.

“Have fun,” Tyler adds, and Dean nearly chokes when Cas answers, “We will.”

Dean smirks when their apartment door closes safely behind them. “ _We will,”_ he imitates. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Cas.”

There’s something almost wicked in the expression Cas turns on him, something Dean has rarely seen from him, but that he _likes._ A lot. “I have wanted you for years, long before I fell. Yes, we need to talk about our feelings, but I also intend for us to have sex. A lot of it.”

If Cas had been trying to short-circuit Dean’s brain, his blunt words have succeeded. “Yes,” he agrees ineloquently, turning in towards Cas, so they’re pressed together nearly chest to chest. He raises a hand to Cas’s cheek, intending to draw him into a deep, hungry kiss, but Cas stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Dean,” he says, his voice weighted with the gravity, not of a being hundreds of eons old, but instead all the gravity or their long shared history, and somehow, that is even more. “I love you. Fathomlessly.” His eyes bore into Dean’s, dark and endless in the dim light of the darkened hallway. 

Dean swallows with a click, traces his thumb over the high arch of Cas’s cheek. His eyes burn as he whispers. “I love you, too. Christ, Cas, you have no idea. What you mean to me—how much I need you—how much I want you. It’s all the same thing, deep down. It’s all love, so much I don’t know what to do with it. Cas—”

Cas’s mouth touches his then, just the barest velvety brush of lips, and then Cas pulls away, less than the space of a breath. Dean’s eyes slip shut, and they find each other again, mouths touching soft, slow, moving together, gliding together, parting on the barest exhale, delicate like the wings of a butterfly, tongues touching together, soft, soft, soft. 

Cas’s arms circle Dean’s back, holding him close, safe, cocooned in this perfect moment. There is wetness on Dean’s cheeks, and answering wetness on the fingers that still cup Cas’s cheek like he’s the most precious thing Dean has ever held. And maybe he is. Dean’s been in love for so long. This hardly feels real.

But it is, maybe more real than anything, because this is what they built for themselves, outside of anyone else’s influence, anyone else’s story. Chuck’s grand story had ended, but they’d gone on and built this life, and chosen it and each other, again and again and again. They won’t be growing old alone in a shabby hotel, too pathetic for even the federales to chase, because they have each other, chose each other, and will always have each other. This can’t be taken from them.

Dean’s other hand tightens on Cas’s hip and his breath hitches, just enough for Castiel to notice and pull back. They blink at each other in the half-light, eyes shiny and red-rimmed, faces wet. Dean gives a damp chuckle and swipes at his eyes with his sleeves.

“Look at me.” He laughs. “You’re turning me into a sap in my old age.”

“It suits you,” Cas answers, dry as dust, and dammit, Dean’s so fucking in love with this asshole. 

“Alright.” He rolls his eyes, smiling helplessly. “Want to take this to the bedroom?”

“Yes,” Cas replies bluntly.

In the bedroom, they fall shy again. The door snicks quietly closed, and they’re left standing, less than two feet apart, not sure what to do next. The silence stretches on, until Dean can’t take it anymore.

“Come here,” he says, taking the plunge.

This time when their mouths meet, it’s deeper, hungrier, years—decades—of want finally being answered. Dean works his hands under Cas’s t-shirt—Dean’s t-shirt, but he’s spent years ignoring how good Cas looks in his clothes, so he’s not about to complain now. Cas’s skin is supple and warm and alive beneath Dean’s hands, and he explores his fill, drawing little sighs from Cas’s mouth into his.

“Mmph!” It’s Dean’s turn to make a noise when one of Cas’s hands sneaks its way below his waist to grab a firm handful of his ass. It’s not a sexy noise, but Cas doesn’t seem to mind, and it turns into a groan as Cas’s other hand grabs onto the short hairs at the back of Dean’s neck and tugs, just enough to feel good. 

Dean urges Cas’s shirt up off over his head. Cas sheds it, breaking the kiss to do so, and Dean takes the opportunity to openly stare his fill at the chest he’s only allowed surreptitious glances at until now. Cas is amazingly toned for a guy his age—apparent or actual—the muscles of someone who works hard, rather than works out. His skin is tan, and there’s an outrageously tempting freckle just above one nipple. There’s an inviting softness around his middle, the result of more than a decade of Dean’s home cooking, and his little bit of chest hair is more than half grey. He’s the most perfect thing that Dean’s ever seen.

Dean wastes no time in affixing his mouth to the roughly-stubbled corner of Cas’s jaw, and it is only Cas’s breathless urging for him to lose some layers as well that has Dean pulling away.

He’s a little more self-conscious of his own torso, knowing he no longer looks the way he did when he was in his prime, but Cas is quick to get his hands on Dean’s bare skin, with a noise of contentment and pleasure that damn near short-circuits Dean’s brain, nearly as much as those strong, calloused hands sliding their way up his chest, pausing to tweak a nipple—still perky—on their way. The noise Dean makes at that should be embarrassing, but Cas’s heated look drives all other thoughts from his head. 

They kiss like that, pressed bare skin to bare skin, growing steadily harder in their jeans where their hips press together. Dean doesn’t even notice Cas is walking him backwards, until with a little push, he lands on his ass on the edge of Cas’s bed, Cas following him down, forcing Dean to shuffle back until he’s laying properly on the bed, Cas straddling his hips.

“This will be easier on your knees,” Cas informs him while Dean is still slightly dazed, and then their mouths are meeting again, and they’re still kissing, with all the enthusiasm of teenagers—or of people who are finally getting what they want after two long decades.

“Pants,” Dean says, muffled into Cas’s mouth, “off,” because there’s just no way he’s going to dry hump until he comes in his jeans, not at his age. Luckily, Cas seems to agree with him, because in short order, they’re down to their underwear, and then nothing at all.

Cas’s boxers land somewhere out of sight with a soft _thwop_ of fabric, and they are left suspended in the moment, the air suddenly still and expectant with the weight of all that has been between them. Bare together for the first time, it’s like they are moving through amber, caught in the infinitely precious moment, as their hands lift, fingers twining together and holding on.

They are lying on their sides now, mirroring each other, and their legs intertwine just as their hands had, and their lips meet, once again soft and sweet and full of wonder that they get to have this at long last. As their lips meet again and their tongues slip against each other, asking and answering, they press together all along the length of their bodies, erections riding up against each other for the first time, hot and hard. Cas makes a longing noise into Dean’s mouth, as if he has been waiting for just this all his long existence, and Dean swallows it eagerly, head still spinning with disbelief and gratitude that Cas wants this as much as Dean does.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” Cas says into the rough stubble of Dean’s jaw, even though they’re just getting started. Dean nods fervently, because he knows exactly what Cas means. Nothing has ever felt this good.

Dean presses kisses to the line of Cas’s jaw, rocking their hips together, using his hand on Cas’s—still beautifully firm—ass to urge him into a rhythm. The friction alone is almost enough to make him lose his mind, but he needs more, needs to touch Cas properly, needs to make him feel good.

He rolls Cas onto his back and presses a firm kiss to his lips. “Lie back,” he tells him, breathless. “Let me do this for you.”

“What—?” Cas starts, but then Dean wraps a hand around his dick, and he lets his head fall back into the pillow with a groan as Dean begins to stroke. 

God he’s gorgeous like this, spread out beneath Dean, his face slack with pleasure. “Feels good?” Dean asks, though obviously it does.

“Yes,” Cas answers anyway, breath coming out in a hiss. “Ohhhh—Dean! It’s so different than touching myself.”

That makes Dean’s hips stutter forward, pressing his dick into the crease where Cas’s thigh meets his body. Somehow, in all the years that Cas has been human, Dean hasn’t allowed himself to think of the possibility of Cas masturbating. But—”You’ve touched yourself.”

“Of course,” Cas pants, hands scrabbling over Dean’s skin, attempting to pull him closer. “In the shower, in my bed when you had the night shift, thinking of you. I always thought of you.”

The thought is enough to set Dean’s blood to boiling. He presses closer to Cas still, pants against his neck. “Same. Fuck, Cas, you have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking of you.” He trails hot kisses up Cas’s neck, stroking him just the way he likes to touch himself.

Cas responds with a choked off groan, but then he’s half-sitting up, pushing Dean back.

“Wha—?” Dean goes, dazed, but Cas puts a hand on his wrist, stopping him from going too far. He shuffles back on his knees, as Cas sits up further, rolling towards his bedside table, and fumbling around inside the drawer.

“There,” Cas mutters as he finds what he was looking for. He leaves the drawer half-open, which normally would drive Dean nuts, but he can hardly bring himself to care, when a bottle of Astroglide is being pressed into his hand, and Cas is deliberately stretching back out on the bed. “I want you to fuck me,” Cas says clearly, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Dean swears. “Yeah, yeah I can do that.” He squirts some lube on his fingers as Cas spreads his legs. “You ever tried this before?”

“With—with my fingers.” Cas gasps as Dean circles a lubed finger around his hole. Dean closes his other hand around Cas’s erection again. “You don’t have to be so careful. I know I like it.”

“My dick’s a little bigger than your fingers,” Dean points out, but even as he says it, he pushes two fingers inside, making Cas hiss and arch his back. 

Fuck but he’s gorgeous like this, and burning hot inside. Dean slides his fingers out and then back in, delighting in the way Cas lets his head drop back into the pillow, slack-jawed in pleasure. He does it again.

“More,” Cas demands, gripping tightly around Dean’s bicep. “I said I want you to fuck me.”

Who is Dean to deny him? He pulls his fingers out and hurries to slick up his dick as Cas makes a disgruntled noise at being kept waiting.

“Ready?” he asks, lining himself up.

“Dean.” Cas takes a handful of his ass, pulling him forward. “Get inside me.”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He slides home with a noise he’d be embarrassed to make any other time. If he thought Cas felt good around his fingers, it’s nothing compared to this, and it only gets better when Cas pulls him in for a deep, hungry kiss. Cas wraps one of those absurdly strong legs around Dean’s back, pulling him in even tighter.

Dean has come with Cas’s name on his lips more times than he can count, but none of his imaginings over the years come close to the real thing. Cas is strong and sturdy beneath him, and he gives as good as he gets, rocking up into Dean’s thrusts and giving little grunts and groans between kisses. Just when Dean’s knees start to tire, Cas rolls them and takes over, riding Dean’s cock like the rodeo champion of Dean’s dreams.

And Holy Fuck, Dean thinks, as he gropes Cas’s thick thighs, staring up at the magnificent sight above him. Dean is the luckiest man in the entire goddamn world, and the stupidest, because he’s been missing out on _this_ for thirteen years, and that’s a crying shame.

He thrusts up into Cas, making him cry out, then gets a better grip on Cas’s hips and does it again. Cas braces himself against Dean’s chest with one hand, and wraps the other around his dick, setting a steady pace, the rosy head disappearing and reappearing in his fist. Dean is torn between that mesmerizing sight and watching the expressions chase themselves across Cas’s face.

“Fuck,” he pants. “I love you.”

Cas gasps out his name, but it’s enough for Dean to know he means the same.

“Get down here and kiss me.” Dean releases one of Cas’s hips to tangle his hand in the dark mess of his hair, tugging him down and craning his neck upwards, until their lips can meet in a clumsy, open-mouthed kiss. He feels rather than hears the hitched groan Cas makes, and then Cas is spilling hot and wet across Dean’s stomach. The feeling, and Cas clenching around him, and the noises he makes as he rides out his orgasm are enough to push Dean over the edge, too, and he follows Cas with a chorus of curses and Cas’s name.

They lie in the afterglow, grinning first up at the ceiling, their fingers linked, and then at each other. After a long moment, Cas rolls so he’s pressed up against Dean’s side, and slings a lightly furred leg over Dean’s own. 

“I think,” he says, “we should get a King size bed.”

Dean’s not inclined to argue with him ever again.

*****

Cas is watering those damn shrubs again, and he's wearing Dean's favourite Metallica shirt to do it. Dean leans back in the desk chair, enjoying the view through the window.

Come to think of it, the bushes might be looking a little greener after all.

The fan rattles overhead, and from the turntable, Townes Van Zandt sings about waiting 'round to die, but the litany of his woes isn't enough to bring Dean down, not today.

Cas catches his eye through the window and waves, small and dorky, and Dean lifts his hands in answer.

"I got me a friend at last," sings Townes. "He don't drink or steal or cheat or lie."

The singer's friend is codeine, but Dean's got something better than that, something real and true and perfect, and maybe it's too soon—or maybe it's been coming for years—but he knows suddenly what he needs to do.

"He's the nicest thing I've seen," sings Townes, and Dean's not going to argue with that, though he does have a quibble with the next line.

After all, he and Cas are hardly waiting around to die.

Without hesitation, Dean is on his feet and bounding over to the door. He pulls it open and steps out into the sunlight.

"Cas," he says, with no preamble. "Marry me."

Cas drops the hose. The water soaks the tops of Dean's boots, and he's never felt more alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please go leave some love for imogenbynight on the [Art Masterpost](https://imogenbynight.tumblr.com/post/615090286934261760/welcome-to-pine-shores-art-masterpost-as-part-of) and consider reblogging the [Masterpost](https://deancaspinefest.tumblr.com/post/615092037246697472/welcome-to-pine-shores-explicit-20901-words) on tumblr.


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